LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 


BOOKS  BY  GEORGE  W.  CABLE 

PUBLISHED     BY     CHARLES    SCIUENER'S  SONS 

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LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

(TO-DAY) 


BY 
GEORGE    W.   CABLE 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1918 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BT 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  September,  1918 
Reprinted  November,  December,  1918 


JL 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  ,AGE 

I.  THEIR  Two  HOMES 3 

II.  THEY  MEET 7 

III.  AT  VANITY  FAIR 14 

IV.  WHERE  THEY  CONVERSE 17 

V.  ON  THE  BOARDWALK 22 

VI.  WITH  ONE  MURRAY    .......  26 

VII.  IN  THE  BLAZE  OF  DAY 31 

VIII.  STRIKING  CHORDS  AND  DISCORDS     ...  38 

IX.  AND  AGAIN,  IN  FLIGHT 43 

X.  HOMEWARD 50 

XI.  A  BRIEF  WAY  TOGETHER 54 

XII.  AND  AT  HOME  ON  DRESS  PARADE  ...  62 

XIII.  "THE  FOE!" 69 

XIV.  "THEY  COME!    THEY  COME!".     ...  79 
XV.  AT  BILOXI 87 

XVI.  ON  THE  DUREL  BOAT-WHARF  98 


401049 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

XVII.    RAISING  THE  DUST 103 

XVIII.    ALSO  THEY  MANOEUVRE 110 

XIX.  AT  AN  UP-TOWN  RECEPTION      .     .     .  115 

XX.  BUT  LOVE  CAN  LIVE  ON  LOVE       .     .  121 

XXI.  AND  A  GOD-SENT  ACCIDENT  OB  Two  .  127 

XXII.    THE  HAWK  STOOPS 137 

XXIII.  BUT  A  DOVE  ROBS  THE  HAWK       .     .  142 

XXIV.  IN  BITTER  AIRS '."  .  147 

XXV.  THE  TRAPPER  Is  TRAPPED   ....  151 

XXVI.  FOR  THE  COMMON  WEAL      .     .     .     .  156 

XXVII.  IN  STORM,  BY  STRATAGEM     ....  166 

XXVIII.  BETWEEN  THE  BOXES  AND  THE  BOOKS  174 

XXIX.  HER  WOOF  ON  His  WARP    ....  183 

XXX.  A  MISTAKE  IN  BRANDING     ....  190 

XXXI.    To  DIE  OR  TO  FLY? 195 

XXXII.    BILOXI  AGAIN 201 

XXXIII.  THE  SIEGE  OF  NEW  YORK   .     .     ,!f ".  210 

XXXIV.  SIEGE  RAISED 217 

XXXV.    ENCHANTED  ISLE 222 

XXXVI.  ENCHANTED  VISION    .     ...     .     .  229 

vi 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

XXXVII.  TRUE  FLESH  AND  BLOOD    ....  236 

XXXVIII.  LOVER  AND  DREAMER 243 

XXXIX.  GARDENS  UNDER  THE  SEA       ...  252 

XL.  LOVE  TAKEN  ABACK 259 

XLI.  ENTER  FEVER 265 

XLII.  WITH  MURRAY  MEDDLING       .     .     .  270 

XLIII.  LOVE  NEGOTIATES 278 

XLIV.  PRIDE  THINKS  ABOUT  IT    ....  282 

XLV.  RENEGADES  REAPPEAR 287 

XL VI.  SUPPLYING  A  MISSING  LINE    .     .     .  292 

XLVII.  "COME  BACK,"  SAYS  SHE  ....  298 

XLVIII.  "I  COME,"  SAYS  HE 302 

XLIX.  CASHIER  AND  CLAIRVOYANTE  .     .     .  306 

L.  No  FAULT  o'  THE  SCOT      .     .     .     .312 

LI.  SOUTHWARD  ALL 317 

LII.  THE  OTHER  GIRL 321 

LIII.  Too  LATE 329 

LIV.  THE  "  LUSITANIA,"  THE  "  LUSITANIA  " !  338 

LV.  LISTEN  1  .343 


vu 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 


THEIR  TWO  HOMES 

UNTIL  within  a  few  years  of  the  date  here  following, 
.more  Creoles  lived  elegantly  in  Esplanade  Street  (now 
Avenue)  than  on  any  other  equal  length  of  thorough 
fare  in  New  Orleans. 

In  1914,  lengthened  far  out  to  Bayou  Saint  John, 
with  its  two  separate  roadways  and  a  grassy  tree- 
planted  parkway  between  them,  it  still  was  socially  best 
among  the  score  of  streets,  once  so  short,  of  the  old 
Franco-Spanish  city. 

One  of  its  most  attractive  dwellings,  of  brick  under  a 
rich  brown  stucco,  was  near  Rampart  Street.  It  may 
be  gone  now.  It  was  of  three  stories,'  the  first  sixteen 
feet  high,  the  second  twelve.  That  was  for  coolness. 
A  dozen  yards  back  from  the  sidewalk,  in  courtly  dig 
nity,  without  a  blemish  of  architectural  parade,  this 
fair  home  awaited  its  visitors'  approach  through  a  gate 
of  wrought-iron  openwork  in  a  wall  eight  feet  high, 
also  of  brown  stucco  and  covered,  the  year  round,  with 
climbing  roses.  Along  the  wall's  coping  ran  an  iron 
balustrade  patterned  to  match  the  gate. 

Wide  balconies  shaded  the  house's  entire  front,  half 
3 


/:  £i  CLOVERS l  fcQP  LOUISIANA 

veiled  by  further  light  ironwork  sustaining  them,  and 
by  honeysuckles  and  jasmines  that  mounted  to  the 
third-story  cornices  and  overhung  them  in  odorous 
masses.  At  the  rear  much  narrower  balconies  ran  the 
full  length  of  the  servants'  wing.  These,  close-lat 
ticed,  showed  how  numerous  had  once  been  the  house 
hold  slaves,  and  how  well  they  had  been  cared  for. 
Yet  in  the  Civil  War  most  of  these  had  strayed  away, 
giddied  by  the  new  wine  of  emancipation. 

Here  lived  the  Durels,  a  Creole  family,  though  num 
bering  but  three,  but  with  cousins,  of  course,  of  one 
name  or  another,  all  over  the  city.  To  be  a  Creole 
yet  not  somehow  related  to  the  Durels  called  for  ex 
planation. 

Miles  away  up~town,  on  Prytania  Street,  about 
evenly  distant  from  Jackson  and  Toledano,  stood  a 
house  almost  a  counterpart  of  this  one,  in  which  also 
was  a  family  of  but  three,  the  Castletons :  the  judge,  so 
called,  though  practising  at  the  bar;  his  unmarried 
daughter,  beginning  to  be  gray;  and  Philip,  son  of  her 
long-departed  sister,  his  father  also  a  Castleton  and  also 
departed.  "Americans,"  not  Creoles,  they  were,  de 
scendants  of  the  late  General  Castleton  of  the  Confed 
erate  Army.  As  to  that,  another  such  general  had 
been  granduncle  to  Rosalie,  youngest  and  fairest  of 
the  Esplanade  Avenue  Durels. 

In  and  about  New  Orleans  one  feels  farther  away 
than  elsewhere  from  everywhere  else  in  the  world.  So 
Philip  had  observed  on  his  recent  return  from  years 
of  study  at  Princeton.  Indeed,  the  fact  is  as  obvious 

4 


THEIR  TWO  HOMES 

as  the  excess  of  water  in  the  landscape,  or  the  moss 
draping  the  mighty  trees.  But  times,  no  less  than 
places,  the  judge  had  answered  him,  may  make  for  re 
moteness.  Imagine  what  that  of  New  Orleans  had 
been  when  the  mistress  of  the  Esplanade  Avenue  home, 
Rosalie's  still  beautiful  grand'mere  Durel,  was  yet  a 
Ducatel  and  in  her  early  teens,  living  around  in  Ram 
part  Street,  in  the  war  years  '61-'65. 

Imagine,  we  can  hear  her  exclaim  in  French  to  Rosa 
lie,  or  the  judge  in  more  sedate  English  to  Philip,  imag 
ine  the  city's  remoteness  with  its  people's  lives,  for 
tunes,  and  passions  swallowed  up  in  a  half-continental 
cyclone  of  strife;  with  the  flower  of  her  manhood  on 
the  far  edge  of  that  storm,  and  the  city  herself  in  the 
hands  of  the  foe.  Those  were  the  days  of  isolation ! 
Days  that  modified  the  merest  lad's  or  schoolgirl's  point 
of  view — nay,  character — for  the  rest  of  life.  The  very 
moon  and  stars  seemed  nearer  than  any  part  of  the 
human  world  outside  the  captors'  lines. 

But  now  all  that  was  past.  Deeper  implanted  than 
that  there  remained  another  remoteness,  in  the  people's 
manners,  customs,  temperament;  an  inner  sort  which 
in  perceptible  degree  maintained  the  habit  of  mind,  tht 
atmosphere,  of  war's  isolation  half  a  century  after  the 
war's  end.  It  was  evident  in  such  persistent  outward 
symptoms  as  those  latticed  balconies,  those  high  garden 
walls,  those  iron  gates,  some  of  them  locked  day  and 
night,  and  the  visitors'  bell-knob  on  the  gate-post,  a 
sort  of  outer  sentry  to  the  new  electric  button  at  the 
door.  At  the  same  time  probably  no  other  city  in 

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LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

America  had  so  sparklingly  busy  a  social  life.  The 
point  is  this:  though  these  two  families  were  of  equal 
social  eminence  and  though  between  them  there  was 
no  apparent  antipathy,  there  was,  up  to  the  early 
months  of  1914,  a  strange  absence  of  intercourse. 

True,  the  strangeness  lay  merely  in  the  fact's  per 
sistence.  The  two  homes  were  of  different  languages, 
religions,  literatures,  moral  standards,  social  codes.  In 
the  days  of  Madame  DurePs  girlhood — Judge  Castle- 
ton's  youth — their  two  social  worlds  had  dumbly  stared 
at  each  other  across  Canal  Street  like  well-enough  be 
haved  but  unacquainted  children,  and  these  worlds  had 
not  yet  fully  blended.  Yet  this  unhostile,  unconfessed, 
complete  non-intercourse  of  two  beautiful  and  highly 
honored  homes  in  particular,  lasting  on  into  the  four 
teenth  year  of  a  new  century  and  in  a  new,  vastly 
grown,  automobile-overrun,  electrically  lighted  New 
Orleans,  was  not  to  be  accounted  for  in  generalities. 


n 

THEY  MEET 

IN  May  of  that  year  both  those  homes  stood  closed. 
Both  families  were  away,  "up  north/'  the  Durels  for 
the  first  time  in  their  experience. 

Judge  Castleton  was  in  Washington  City  for  a  client. 
His  daughter  was  with  him.  Philip  was  again  at 
Princeton,  momentarily,  preparing  to  give  at  "Tulane," 
New  Orleans,  a  course  of  lectures  on  American  political 
history.  Not  yet  twenty-six,  he  was  trying,  he  said,  to 
look  thirty  and  to  acquire  a  head  which  later  might 
serve  for  a  professor,  a  poet,  a  journalist,  politician, 
diplomat,  or  all  in  one.  Mr.  Durel,  president  of  the 
Carondelet  Bank,  had  gone  to  New  York  in  behalf  of 
that  important  concern,  and  of  course  his  ladies  were 
with  him. 

Society  felt  the  loss  of  all  six.  Grave,  capable,  re 
fined  Miss  Castleton,  regretted  socially,  was  even  more 
regretted  in  her  church,  whose  missionary  energies,  for 
instance,  went  limp  for  want  of  her;  while  the  Durel 
ladies,  missed  in  church,  were  missed  even  more  in 
society.  Drawing-rooms  felt  the  absence  of  madame's 
exquisite  touch  on  the  piano,  accompanying  the  highly 
trained  voice  of  Rosalie,  who,  at  twenty-one  the  despair 
of  all  suitors,  sang  so  well  that  social  enthusiasm  de- 

7 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

clared  nothing  stood  between  her  and  a  "career,"  could 
she  but  stoop. 

However,  the  Durels  had  left  New  York,  where  mon 
sieur's  errand  had  succeeded.  This  was  the  more  a 
triumph  in  view  of  the  very  private  fact  that  for  long 
his  bank  had  found  it  hard  to  declare  full  dividends; 
so  hard  that  he  had  stuck  too  closely  to  his  desk  and 
was  now  "merely  tired."  But  when  one  is  so  "merely 
tired"  that  he  cannot  close  his  eyes  without  seeing 
faces,  he  should  pause,  and  now  he  and  his  ladies,  home 
ward  bound,  were  pausing  at  Vanity  Fair,  or,  as  some 
call  it,  Atlantic  City. 

A  day  or  two  later  Philip,  his  Princeton  work  done, 
rejoined  his  aunt  and  the  judge  in  Philadelphia,  and 
the  three  decided  to  squander  half  a  week  on  Atlantic 
City's  boardwalk.  They  arrived  not  far  from  the 
Durels'  hotel  one  evening  when  there  happened  to  be 
assembling  there  a  convention  of  librarians.  It  was  to 
be  a  pleasant  meeting  of  both  sexes,  and  the  Castletons 
had  hardly  taken  a  light  refreshment  before  Philip  had 
made  acquaintance  with  some  of  the  delegates  and  per 
suaded  the  judge  and  his  aunt  to  accept  their  invitation 
to  the  affair. 

In  a  chill  breeze  and  the  roar  of  a  heavy  surf  and 
under  a  blaze  of  electric  lights  that  blotted  out  the 
heavens,  they  traversed  the  boardwalk  not  quite  alone. 
With  them  went  a  Mr.  Murray,  a  fellow  hotel-guest;  a 
lone  Scot,  of  fifty  or  so,  in  morning  dress — Norfolk 
jacket,  no  top-coat.  He  carried  a  thick  stick  by  the 
middle  and  stooped  forward  in  a  limber  stride,  Like 

8 


THEY  MEET 

M.  Durel,  he  was  a  banker,  but,  quite  unlike  the  Creole, 
was  of  a  sort  whose  notes  of  travel  boxed  the  world's 
compass  with  an  inquisitiveness  hardly  less  than  med 
dlesome.  We  will  not  attempt  to  render  his  oddities  of 
speech  fully  or  precisely,  but — 

"I've  chawnced,"  he  said,  "to  hear  two  or  three  do 
mestics  call  those  librarians  Siberians.'  Would  that 
be  an  accepted  Amerricanism  ?  " 

The  "liberians"  were  found  standing  about  in  so 
ciable  knots,  waiting  to  be  called  to  business.  Philip 
and  Murray  promptly  mingled  with  them.  The  aunt 
and  her  father,  on  the  other  hand,  found  a  pleasant  al 
cove  of  four  seats,  all  empty. 

They  were  a  noticeable  pair.  The  judge  was  of  a 
good  height  and  trim  figure  which  evening  dress  set  off 
uncommonly  well.  His  face  was  clean-shaven,  yet  his 
bearing  was  rather  military  than  judicial.  His  features 
were  refined,  yet  strong.  Repose,  benevolence,  and  in 
trepidity  were  equally  evident  in  them.  His  hair  was 
hardly  as  gray  as  his  daughter's,  and  he  was,  beyond 
doubt,  far  older  than  he  looked  or  Philip  could  not  have 
been  his  grandson,  despite  the  remarkable  resemblance 
between  the  two. 

Miss  Castleton  was  slender  and  handsome,  and  her 
dress  excellent  in  all  points  barring  perhaps  one:  a 
touch,  no  more,  of  severity,  without  which  one  might 
easily  have  failed  to  observe  in  her  lips,  on  her  brow,  a 
like  shadow  of  the  same  quality  within.  One  of  the 
undetected  things  this  stood  for  was  an  overstress  of 
femininity;  that  phase  of  femininity  which  often,  not 

0 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

always,  keeps  the  possessor  single — at  times  may  even 
keep  others  so. 

Hardly  were  the  two  seated  when  by  a  fine  effort  a 
diffidently  hovering  male  librarian  came  close: 

"  Pardon,  but  are  you  not  Judge  Carrington,  of " 

"Almost,  sir.  My  name  is  Castleton." 
"  Castleton !  Yes !  I  knew  you  by  your  likeness  to 
your  picture  in  yesterday's  Ledger.  I  wonder,  Judge 
Castleton,  if  you  know  in  New  Orleans  a  man  named 
—oh,  there,  I've  forgotten !  What  is  that  man's  name  ? 
Why,  he's  a  distant  connection  of  mine;  his  mother's 
stepfather  was  a  second  cousin  to  my  wife's  brother-in- 
law.  I  never  met  him  but  once  and  that  was  in  that 
second-hand  bookstore  in  Chartres  Street  near  the 
cathedral,  kept  by  that  black  man — blackest  man  I 
ever  saw — named — oh — pshaw ! " 

"  Shaw,  you  think  ?     Isn't  it  Landry  ? 
"Landry!    Right!    Ovide  Landry.    You  know  him, 
then?" 

"No,  but  I  used  often  to  pass  his  shop  when  the 
courts  were  down  that  way." 

"  Well,  he's  the  most  extraordinary  black  man  I " 

Music  silenced  him.  Piano,  violins,  and  trombone 
crashed  their  evening  finale — early  because  of  the  con 
vention.  At  the  same  moment  appeared  the  Durels. 
They  came  from  the  dining-room,  late,  and  loitered 
toward  the  alcove  as  to  an  accustomed  corner.  The 
music  ceased,  but  under  cover  of  its  last  peal  the  li 
brarian  had  vanished  and  was  gone  for  good,  forever. 
As  the  judge  resumed  his  seat  he  noticed  the  Durels 

10 


THEY  MEET 

coming  and  turned  to  his  daughter  to  propose  that 
they  move.  But  always  Miss  Castleton's  primal  in 
stinct  was  to  reject  any  masculine  suggestion,  and  by 
the  time  she  was  aware  of  the  Durels  it  was  too  late  to 
go;  madame  and  her  son  took  the  two  available  seats. 

They  had  not  seen  the  Castletons.  Their  careful 
eyes  were  on  Rosalie.  Three  or  four  paces  away  she 
had  been  stopped  by  an  eager  young  girl,  a  librarian, 
who  had  secured  her  acquaintance  before  dinner  and 
now  was  overburdened  by  two  male  charmers,  Philip 
being  one  and  the  Scotchman  the  one  too  many.  What 
emphasized  the  attention  of  Rosalie's  kindred  was  that 
Rosalie  and  Philip,  from  first  sight,  first  exchange  of 
words,  were  showing  an  interest  in  each  other  which 
enlisted  the  sympathy  of  every  casual  observer. 

Philip  and  she  were  both  from  New  Orleans !  Stated 
in  that  strange  place,  what  resonance,  what  weight, 
what  color,  what  thrill,  were  in  that  fact!  And  al 
though  she  was  of  the  farthest  edge  of  the  "Vieux 
Carre/'  while  he  was  of  the  "Nouveau  Quartier"  and 
had  been  back  at  home  so  few  months  after  those  years 
north,  how  near,  nevertheless,  had  they  been  to  meet 
ing,  already  and  at  home,  a  dozen  times ! 

The  Scot  and  the  pretty  librarian  forgot  to  look  at 
each  other,  so  "easy  to  look  at" — as  Princetonians  say 
— and  so  easy  to  listen  to  were  the  other  pair.  Espe 
cially  Rosalie.  Philip,  except  for  a  neat  mustache  and 
a  shade  more  of  breadth  and  stature,  was  his  grand 
father  reminted,  and  seemed  to  the  two  admirers  par 
ticularly  worthy  to  be,  thus  transiently  if  no  more, 

11 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

freely  singled  out  by  the  Creole  girl.  And  she  I  They 
could  almost  forget  her  unusual  beauty,  so  enchanting 
were  her  voice,  her  manner.  With  these  for  a  setting 
her  speech,  though  English,  was  a  jewel,  her  faint 
Creole  accent  the  jewel's  best  gleam. 

In  Britain  the  Scot,  in  New  England  the  library  girl, 
had  once  or  twice  known  women  whose  words  fell  from 
such  limpid  springs  of  feeling,  and  with  such  tranquil 
lity  of  countenance  and  frame,  that  for  moments  one 
could  close  his  eyes  and  yet  get  the  speaker's  whole 
wealth  of  meaning  and  charm.  But  here  was  some 
thing  as  different  as  a  diamond  from  a  pearl.  A  play 
of  sympathetic  intelligence  in  her  tone,  in  her  eyes,  on 
her  brows,  was  like  just  enough  stir  in  the  roses.  Her 
speech  neither  began  nor  ended  on  the  lips,  nor  her 
radiance  in  her  face;  every  part  of  her  presence,  in  a 
delicate  equilibrium,  had  its  perfect  share  in  every  ut 
terance.  The  slight,  unconscious  undulations  of  her 
hands  ran  daintily  through  all  her  being,  chasing  the 
waves  of  her  thought  and  shedding  that  light  of  life 
which  is  the  painter's  last  touch.  So  felt  the  British 
banker,  with  that  vivacity  of  sentiment  never  lacking 
in  the  true  Caledonian;  and  so  felt  the  book-sated  little 
librarian,  unselfishly  enraptured  to  find  poetry,  for  once, 
not  pressed  and  dried  in  books  but  fragrant,  alive,  in 
carnate. 

The  chief  joy  of  Philip  and  Rosalie  was  in  chancing 
on  an  inspiring  fellowship  through  which  to  contem 
plate  the  great  world  in  aspects  so  vividly  unlike  those 
of  their  remote  home  city.  Each  to  each  supplied  a 

12 


THEY  MEET 

lively  want.  The  judge,  grand'mere,  aunt,  pere,  had 
always  been  richly  sympathetic  yet  not  without  dis 
crepancies  of  view  inseparable  from  discrepancy  of 
years.  Cherished,  worshipped,  they  were  nevertheless 
"back  numbers,"  gilt-edged  bound  volumes.  Philip 
seemed  to  her,  she  to  him,  news !  news  of  the  hour,  on 
the  hour,  for  the  hour ! 

The  librarians  came  to  order,  the  library  girl  vanished 
forever — so  wags  the  world  at  Vanity  Fair — and  Rosa 
lie,  with  Philip  on  one  side  and  Murray  on  the  other, 
rejoined  her  father  and  madame.  These  had  her  yet 
in  their  eye,  although  madame  had  broken  the  ice  be 
tween  themselves  and  the  Castletons.  In  voices  kept 
well  under  those  of  the  convention  the  newcomers  were 
introduced  and  the  seven,  held  together  by  the  Scot, 
withdrew  to  an  unoccupied  reading-room.  Leaving 
madame  to  the  judge,  and  Rosalie  to  Philip  and  Miss 
Castleton,  the  Briton  fastened  upon  the  Creole  banker. 


13 


Ill 

AT  VANITY  FAIR 

MR.  MURRAY  touched  monsieur's  buttonhole:  "I've 
a  letter  to  you,  unless  there  are  other  Durels  in  the 
banking  business/' 

The  Creole  was  of  a  trim  figure,  in  clothes  precisely 
correct,  and  his  tiny  iron-gray  waxed  mustaches,  each 
ending  in  a  single  hair,  agreeably  tempered  his  invinci 
ble  dignity.  "Beside*  me,"  he  said,  "they  have,  in  my 
bank  alone,  my  two  nephew',  receiving  and  paying 
teller',  and  my  second  cousin,  cashier." 

"Then  you  are  A.  Durel,  president." 

"Yes,  Alphonse.    Zephire  Durel  is  my  cashier." 

"  Gad !  from  A  to  Z,  as  they  say  in  this  country.  I 
know  the  phrase  on  the  other  side,  but  I'm  sure  'tis  an 
Amerricanism." 

Monsieur  lightly  showed  his  dropped  palms  and 
shrugged.  The  nailing  of  Americanisms  was  not  his 
business. 

The  Scot  returned  to  the  point:  "Man !  I  shouldn't 
want  three  relatives  o'  mine  in  my  bank." 

The  Creole  smiled  solemnly:  "To  those  relative',  as 
to  me,  the  responsibblety  of  the  Durel  name  weighs 
more  than  ten  banks." 

Philip,  seemingly  half  forgotten  between  Rosalie  and 
his  aunt,  caught  monsieur's  remark  and  turned.  At 
home  he  knew  Zephire  by  sight;  a  handsome  fellow  of 

14 


AT  VANITY  FAIR 

thirty-five,  living  showily  in  bachelor's  quarters  in  the 
old  decayed  and  forsaken  rue  Orleans.  Jolly  to  meet, 
he  was  said  to  be;  deadly  to  offend,  possessed  of  a 
famous  gift  for  accounts,  one  of  those  geniuses  who 
add  five  columns  of  figures  at  a  single  glance.  He  ran 
a  costly  motor-car,  sailed  a  fast  pleasure-boat,  led  a  fast 
life,  and  was  as  bigoted  in  his  vices  as  some  of  us  in 
our  virtues,  yet  of  an  unquestioned  business  integrity; 
the  city's  smartest  example  of  how  all  those  things  may 
be  successfully  combined.  Philip  turned  to  the  two 
bankers,  therefore,  with  a  new  interest  in  Durels. 

But  Murray,  making  haste  to  be  less  personal,  asked 
Philip  why  so  many  New  Orleans  banks,  the  Durel 
bank  included,  held  their  charters  from  the  State  rather 
than  from  the  national  government.  But  Philip  de 
ferred  to  monsieur,  who  explained  that  in  New  Orleans 
there  was  much  "trust  business,"  which  national  banks 
might  not  do,  and  while  the  Scot  listened  Philip  glanced 
back  again  to  the  other  two  couples,  yet  preferred  to 
leave  them  to  themselves,  particularly  the  judge  and 
madame — "  'mere." 

"'Mere"  and  "chere"  were  all  Rosalie  ever  called 
her,  as  "the  judge"  was  Philip's  only  word  for  his  be 
latedly  young  grandfather.  The  picture  furnished  by 
the  elder  couple  made  it  preferable  to  Philip  to  remain 
himself  a  while  alone.  The  judge  seemed  so  exactly 
adapted  to  madame,  and  she  to  enjoy  a  content  so 
sweetly  dignified,  that  to  draw  nearer  would  be  too 
much  like  breaking  a  spell. 

And,  besides,  Philip  could  no  more  keep  his  eyes  on 
15 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Rosalie  than  off.  But  on  madame  they  could  dwell 
and  in  her  grace  he  saw  Rosalie's  abated  to  a  past 
tense;  biography  prophesied.  In  madame  there  yet  re 
mained  that  shell-pink,  shell-white,  rose-warm  trans- 
lucency  of  complexion  with  which  the  Louisiana  Creole 
so  often  surprises  such  first  beholders  as,  say,  the  Scot. 
On  her  was  repeated  under  the  faultless  throat,  fault 
lessly  matching  the  attire,  Rosalie's  single-stranded 
necklace  of  small  pearls,  except  that  madame's  pearls 
were,  so  to  say,  punctuated  with  amethysts,  as  life  is 
with  experiences.  Her  rich  coils  of  hair  were  blacker 
than  Rosalie's  and  did  not  cast  the  frequent  glimmer 
of  bronze  which  the  girl's  did  in  a  supple  play  of  head, 
neck,  and  shoulders;  but  the  matron's  shoulders,  ampler 
than  the  girl's,  were  as  perfect  for  her  years  as  Rosalie's 
for  her  youth.  In  the  two  faces  there  was  almost  the 
same  softness  of  oval  contour,  the  same  mobility  in  the 
faintly  arched  nose,  the  same  voluptuous  sweep  of 
lashes.  Only  hi  eloquence  of  glance  did  the  younger 
peculiarly  excel.  The  eyes  of  both  were  large,  but 
Rosalie's  were  the  richer  in  changing  lustres;  now 
straightforward  and  alight  with  candor,  now  musingly 
dropped  sidewise,  but  quickly  lifted  again  into  self- 
illumination,  as  though  her  speech  could  hardly  be 
speech  without  them. 

At  one  point  she  paused  with  a  bright  glance  to 
ward  the  assembled  librarians.  They  were  applauding 
their  chairman.  Philip  came  to  her  side,  but  his  first 
word  was  a  facetious  one  to  his  aunt: 

"What  is  Miss  Durel  saying  that  so  pleases  them?" 
16 


IV 
WHERE  THEY  CONVERSE 

THE  girl  broke  in  gayly:  "If  I  had  been  saying 
anything  to  them  it  would  be  of  the  Boardwalk! 
Continually  since  morning  we've  been  on  it,  'mere 
and  I,  bundled  up  in  one  of  those  wheel-chairs.  I 
didn't  think  there  was  in  the  whole  world  a  place  so 
multitudinous ! " 

Miss  Castleton  took  her  literally:  "Oh !  is  it  more  so 
than  Fifth  Avenue— or  Piccadilly?" 

And  Philip  more  passively  added:  "Even  our  own 
Canal  Street,  in  Carnival  time " 

"Ah,  Canal  Street !  One  week  in  the  year,  and  then 
only  from  Magazine  to  Rampart — five  squares !  While 
here — twenty !  And  here  'tis  not  alone  the  multitude 
but  the  types !  So  many  and  so  droll !" 

"And  from  every  corner  of  the  earth." 

"Yes!  Yes!  And  yet  still,  among  all  those  types 
the  most  droll — "  She  archly  checked  up. 

"Are  Americans?"  inquired  Philip. 

"Americans!"  she  echoed,  and  turned  to  the  aunt. 

But  with  amiable  reluctance  that  lady  confessed  to 
little  care  for  types,  or  love  of  crowds. 

Rosalie  arched  a  lovely  distress:  "Ah,  crowds !  they're 
not  for  me!  Last  Sunday  seventy  thousand  people! 

17 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

To  love  seventy  thousand — strangers — at  one  time — 
and  mostly  types — it  is  not  possible !  Yet  still  I  think 
'twould  be  twice  as  easy  as  solitude.** 

"Mademoiselle,  you're  not  confined  to  that  choice." 

She  gave  the  briefest  of  glances,  looked  down  and 
drew  a  breath.  "On  a  pinch,"  Philip  added,  "you 
might  choose  society." 

"Ah!"— she  looked  heavenward— " that's  what  I 
love — society ! "  Brow  and  lashes  drooped  again : 
"Solitude  is  terrible." 

The  aunt  wanted  to  be  generous,  but  such  worldli- 
ness  silenced  her.  Yet  her  smile  was  kind.  The  girl 
turned  to  the  nephew:  "You  neither?  Don't  care  for 
types?" 

"  I  care  a  lot.    To  me  they're  the  best  reading." 

She  sparkled.  "They  are  history  alive!  We  saw 
to-day — eating  sea-water  taffy — two  unabridged  his 
tories  of  Vermont — male  and  female ! " 

"Any  complete  history  of  the  United  States?" 

"Too  many  to  count !"  One  subtle  gesture,  delight 
fully  refined  as  it  ran  through  her  whole  form,  so  truly 
and  comically  implied  a  fat,  masculine,,  swaggering 
alertness,  that  the  aunt  smiled  again  even  while  protest 
ing:  "Oh,  that's  not  the  whole  country;  it's  not  the 
South!" 

"And  it's  only  one  type,"  said  Philip. 

"But  'tis  everywhere,  is  it  not?  Fifth  Avenue, 
Broadway,  Boardwalk?  After  those  I'm  content  to 
return  home;  I  have  seen  the  North !" 

Philip  laughed  and  sat  down  by  her. 
18 


WHERE  THEY  CONVERSE 

"Ah/*  she  exclaimed,  "you  think  not?" 

"I— I'd  like  to  talk  with  you  about  the  North/1  he 
said,  "as  a  fellow  Southerner."  His  aunt  began  to 
offer  parting  courtesies.  But  as  she  moved  to  madame 
and  the  judge,  Philip  insisted  to  Rosalie:  "I  take  that 
subject  in  dead  earnest." 

"Yes?  I — I  don't  like  anything  dead.  I  prefer  to 
take  everything  in  live  joke." 

"That's  all  right.  One  of  us  in  joke,  one  in  ear 
nest,  that's  the  way  to  the  truth  of  things.  But, 
really,  don't  you  think  we  Southerners  ought  to  study 
other  sections  of  our  country  and  our  people — if  only 
to  know  the  South  and  ourselves  better?" 

"Yes !  Yes !  That's  what  I  tell—"  A  side  glance 
indicated  her  father. 

"In  joke?"  asked  Philip,  but  their  seniors  came  near 
and  he  added:  "Very  well,  we'll  discuss  it  to-morrow, 
if  you  don't  forbid." 

"Possibly,  yes,  if  we  happen  to  stumble  across." 

"Trust  the  stumbling  to  me,"  he  said,  but  she  turned 
to  receive  the  Scot's  parting  bow. 

Out  under  the  stars,  where  a  growing  warmth  of  air 
presaged  a  pleasant  morrow,  Philip,  beside  his  aunt  and 
followed  by  the  two  older  men,  remarked  that  either 
the  surf's  thunder  or  the  star-quenching  splendor  of 
electric  advertising  was  enough  to  fill  one's  whole  mind, 
but  that  the  two  together  emptied  it.  To  which  the 
aunt,  guessing  his  mind's  true  fulness,  replied  with  a 
query  in  undertone: 

"How  did  those  two  ladies  strike  you?" 
19 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Delightfully,"  he  replied,  and  glanced  back. 
"Judge,  think  what  that  grandmother  must  have  been 
at  her  granddaughter's  age." 

The  judge,  discoursing  on  Panama  or  something  as 
remote,  forgot  his  point,  though  both  he  and  the  Scot 
ignored  the  remark.  Not  so  the  quiet  aunt. 

"How  about  the  girl?"  she  asked  Philip. 

"She?  Why,  auntie,  the  law  oughtn't  to  allow  a 
girl  to  be  as  handsome  as  that  one." 

The  response  was  tardy  and  meditative:  "The  law, 
unfortunately,  can't  prevent  her." 

"Why,  auntie  dear!    Why,  auntie!" 

"Philip,  such  beauty  is  unfortunate.  I've  never 
known  a  case  that  wasn't  a  pitfall  to  the  girl  and  a  bur 
den  to  all  concerned.  Unless  there  is  behind  it  a  mind 
and  soul  quite  as  extraordinary " 

"Ah,  but  there  is.    She's  got  them,  all  three." 

The  aunt  smiled  prettily.  "She  certainly  seemed  to 
have  a  mind  to  you,  Phil." 

"Oh,  please !    That's  just  her  way  with  every  one." 

"With  every  one  man,  I  warrant  you." 

"Auntie,  don't  women  always  stand  up  for  their 
sex?" 

"Not  for  individuals  of  it!  And  not  for  types. 
That  girl's  a  type  herself  if  ever  there  was  one." 

"No,  she's  a  type  by  herself  if  ever  there  was  one." 

The  amused  lady  caressed  her  nephew's  arm:  "That's 
what  the  stricken  always  think,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  stricken." 

"Then  you  shouldn't  have  looked  it." 
90 


WHERE  THEY  CONVERSE 

"Oh,  my  dear  1  even  in  joke  don't  say  that.  I'll  de 
clare  I  didn't  look  stricken." 

"To  yourself,  of  course,  you  didn't.  To  her  you  did, 
so  plainly  that  she  had  to  tell  you  that  she  wasn't  in 
earnest.  I  confess  I  liked  her  for  that." 

"So  did  I.    I  do  yet." 

"Then  her  every  point  in  saying  it  is  gained." 

"Why,  auntie,  you're  like  a  bird  with  one  chick. 
What's  so  suddenly  put  you  so  out  of  character  ?  " 

"My  boy,  I'm  my  whole  true  self  when  I  say  I  hope 
that  girl  will  never  have  the  luck  to  see  you  again." 

They  were  re-entering  their  hotel,  and  Philip  made 
no  reply.  Within,  the  two  stood  aside  while  the  Scot 
left  them  and  the  judge  went  to  the  office  for  their 
keys.  Philip  gave  his  aunt  an  unearned  smile. 

She  touched  him  fondly.  "Phil,  in  the  realities  you 
and  she  haven't  one  least  thing  in  common." 

Asking  himself,  "  Where  does  this  panic  spring  from  ?  " 
he  replied  appeasingly,  accepting  his  key  from  the 
judge,  "I  fancy  that  in  the  realities" — he  began  to  back 
away  to  the  elevator — "Never  mind.  I'll  find  out  as 
soon  as  I  can  and  will  let  you  know." 

Her  eye  released  him,  but  detained  the  judge.  Sud 
denly,  privately,  she  said:  "He  mustn't  do  any  such 
thing.  This  mustn't  go  a  step  farther." 

Gravely  he  replied:  "It  won't.     It  won't." 

"Why  won't  it?" 

"Well,  for  one  thing — did  you  ever  hear  of  the 
second  cousin,  Zephire  ? " 


21 


ON  THE  BOARDWALK 

MORNING  found  Philip  on  the  sea's  front  while  the 
waters  yet  flushed  the  changes  of  a  spring  dawn. 

The  tide  was  in.  The  surf  leaped  and  thundered  in 
three,  four,  five  yeasting  lines,  at  times  unbroken  from 
pier  to  pier.  In  the  quiet  air  there  was  hardly  more 
chill  than  would  be  gone  in  an  hour.  Yet  little  moving 
life  was  in  sight;  long  stretches  of  the  Boardwalk  were 
without  a  human  figure.  Over  the  horizon  a  few  thin 
clouds  stood  as  motionless  as  though  painted  there, 
while  beneath  them,  miles  away  in  the  northeast,  crept 
a  tow  of  coal-barges,  and  in  the  southeast  another. 

The  Castletons'  hotel  was  one  of  the  most  southerly 
on  the  ocean  front,  and  not  to  miss  the  earliest  glimpse 
of  the  sun  when  it  should  spring  from  the  sea  Philip 
turned  toward  the  Inlet  and  took  his  way  along  Vanity 
Fair's  densest  and  smartest  show  of  herself;  palatial 
hotels,  theatres,  piers,  and  shops.  When  that  first 
glimpse  came  he  paused  at  the  Boardwalk's  rail  and 
watched  it  grow,  willingly  lost  in  its  never-failing  won 
der.  Another  man  came  and  stood  beside  him  under 
the  same  spell.  It  was  Murray,  in  Norfolk  jacket  and 
knickerbockers,  still  gripping  his  stick  by  the  middle. 
Neither  saluted  until  the  great  ball's  lower  edge  had 
cleared  the  ocean's  rim. 

22 


ON  THE  BOARDWALK 

Then  they  spoke  and  soon  walked  on  together.  The 
Scot  said  he  had  been  away  southwesterly  on  the 
Boardwalk  to  a  place  mostly  of  empty  lots,  called  on 
sign-boards  Ventnor. 

"Would  that  be,  possibly,  an  American  Indian 
name?" 

Philip  thought  not  and  said  he  was  saving  that  walk 
for  the  close  of  day,  when  he  could  face  the  sunset  as 
he  went,  and  later,  returning,  would  see  the  Board 
walk's  myriad  lights  and  the  ocean  silvering  to  a  rising 
moon. 

The  Scot  was  stirred.  "Gad,  youVe  the  right  in 
stinct.  I'll  do  that  this  evening !" 

Philip,  his  mind  on  Rosalie,  was  sorry  not  to  have 
kept  his  instinct  to  himself.  Yet  he  retained  a  gay 
manner. 

"There's  another  instinct  I  wish  I  had.  Don't  you 
approve  an  instinct  for  the  crowd;  a  right  way  of  seeing 
it;  a  sympathetic  and  yet  sane  way?" 

"Ay!  Now  here  in  America,  where  the  people's 
maddest  instinct  is  for  keeping  busy,  like,  eh,  like  mere 
awnts,  'tis  a  real  relief  to  find,  here,  such  swarms  of 
them,  for  days  together,  just  idle — stopping  a  bit — to 
live." 

Maybe  for  lack  of  the  right  instinct  this  seemed  more 
sympathetic  than  sane.  "  Wouldn't  you  call  it  mighty 
shoal-water  living?"  Philip  asked,  while  his  mind 
roved. 

"Ah!  if  they  kept  it  up,  verily!  But  to-morrow 
they  go  back  and  'get  busy,'  as  you  say  here?" 

23 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

When,  at  the  next  mile-post,  the  two  faced  about  for 
breakfast  the  Scot  had  got  clear  round  to  this:  "You 
Amerricans,  you've  one  grreat  advantage  over  us,  that 
your  country's  as  compact  as  it  is  vawst?  You've  all 
your  eggs  in  one  bawsket,  as  you  say  ?  " 

"You  might  say,  in  forty-eight,"  laughed  the  South 
erner. 

"True;  you've  that  many  States;  yet  you're  all  in 
one  boat?"  the  Scot  insisted. 

"Except  for  the  Philippines — and  a  few  like  trifles," 
rejoined  Philip,  trying  to  keep  his  mind  off  a  certain 
hotel,  the  next  they  were  to  repass. 

"  Ah,  you  couldn't  help  that  Philippine  business,  and 
I'm  glad  you  couldn't,"  said  the  Scot.  "It's  profited 
the  wurruld !  Promoted  its  peace !  Lifted  it  and  the 
brown  man  on  and  up !  Ye  made  that  war  in  the  fear 
o'  God,  so  hold  fast  what  he  gi'es  you.  It  paid  ye  in 
breadth  o'  mind.  'Twas  so  I  talked  to  your  Creole 
banker  lawst  night.  'The  first  founders  of  this  na 
tion,'  says  he,  'never  set  out  to  own  Pacific  islands.' 
'Nor  to  buy  Louisiana,'  says  I,  'but  are  you  sorry  'twas 
bought  ? '  Doctor  Castleton,  treat  your  Philippines  as 
you  may,  no  great  people  can  ever  be  quite — or  only — 
what  they  set  out  to  be.  Man,  look  at  Brritain  ?  " 

"Yes,"  absently  said  Philip,  looking  for  Britain  at  a 
certain  hotel's  windows. 

"Did  Brritain,"  the  self-entertained  Scot  went  on, 
"start  in  with  the  intent  to  sprawl  herself  all  over  the 
globe — till  now  she  looks  ready  to  drop  to  pieces  by 
dead  weight  and  holds  together  only  by  being,  always 

24 


ON  THE  BOARDWALK 

and  everywhere,  in  one  puir  way  or  another,  the  world's 
man-of -all-work  and  as  democratic  as  she  is  imperial  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Philip.  "No,  of  course  not.  Here's 
where  we  met  the — the  librarians — last  night."  His 
heart  unaccountably  broke  into  song  like  a  caged  bird. 

"Humph!"  responded  the  Scot,  as  though  he  heard 
the  strain,  "and  right  here's  her  father"  [at  a  jeweller's 
shop-window].  "Good  morning,  Mr.  Durel." 

The  grave  Creole  had  barely  time  to  show  due  cor 
diality  when  his  daughter  came  out  of  the  shop.  She 
had  been  for  days,  she  explained  to  Philip,  in  search  of 
a  gift  for  her  grandmother,  whose  birthday  this  was, 
but  could  find  nothing  good  enough  which  was  not 
hopelessly  beyond  her  purse.  The  rapture  of  the  diffi 
culty  fairly  illuminated  her.  When  he  smilingly  asked 
if  the  fault  was  not  madame's — fault  of  her  faultlessness 
— she  lighted  up  yet  more  as  she  said  it  was,  entirely ! 
Then  when  he  said  that  his  aunt  gave  him  the  same 
distress  every  year  the  illumination  deferentially 
waned,  and  when  he  ventured  to  add,  "We,  you  and 
I,  have  that  much  in  common,  anyhow,"  she  said, 
"Yes?"  as  if  not  sure  she  understood,  though  she  did, 
better  than  he  dreamed. 

"Well,  papa?"  She  had  turned  and  the  two  bowed 
good-day. 


25 


VI 
WITH  ONE  MURRAY 

PHILIP  and  the  Scot  strode  on,  the  younger  man 
pondering  the  happy  moment.  How  brief,  how  trivial, 
yet  how  much  it  had  contained.  "Nothing  in  com 
mon!"  Were  not  such  chance  interchanges  their  own 
proof  of  much  in  common?  The  bird  within,  unable 
to  say  flat  yes  or  no,  absurdly  struck  up  at  the  top  of 
its  voice :  "  Rosalie  Durel,  Durel,  Rosalie  Durel !  Ros 
alie,  Rosalie,  Rose,  Rose,  Rose!" 

Would  Murray  hear  it  again?  To  prevent  him 
Philip  spoke — volubly.  He  reverted  to  Britain;  ex 
tolled  her  wonderful  ways  and  means  of  peace,  order, 
and  beneficence;  her  conservation  of  so  much  liberty 
and  law  with  so  little  show  of  force,  and  the  loyalty  she 
inspired  in  so  many  millions  of  all  races  of  men,  white, 
brown,  yellow,  black,  and  red.  He  laid  it  on  thick  and 
the  Scot  took  it  like  a  hero  till  at  "yellow,  black,  and 
red"  he  offered  an  interruption  which  Philip — with  a 
visible  flush — could  not  but  regard  as  acutely  out  of 
time  and  unfair. 

"Hark!  You're  a  Southerner,  but  I'd  say  this  to 
any  American,  for  ye're  all  tarred  with  the  same  stick, 
as  your  saying  is.  You  fancy  your  race  question's  a 
peculiarly  American  question.  Man! — "  But  here 
Philip  broke  in: 

"Down  South  we're  narrower  than  that,  Mr.  Mur- 
2G 


WITH  ONE  MURRAY 

ray,  I'm  afraid.  We  call  it  a  strictly  Southern  ques 
tion,  which  we  will  take  care  of  if  the  rest  of  the  country 
will  only  let  us  alone." 

"  But  it  isn't  and  ye  don't.  Doctor  Castleton,  it's  a 
British  question  and  a  world  question  and  it's  getting 
bigger  every  day." 

"Oh,  we  know  how  big  it  is,"  said  Philip,  wishing 
— as  if  that  would  help  or  hinder — that  Rosalie 
were  by. 

"No,  you  don't  know  either  how  big  it  is  or  how 
small.  How  small,  that  is,  in  the  world's  sight,  among 
a  hundred  acuter  questions.  It  looks  biggest  to  you 
where  it's  smallest,  so — I'll  say  but  this  word  and 
no  other  henceforth — you  handle  it,  all  of  you — 
North,  South,  East,  West — California,  Carolina — tim 
orously.  And  whenever  the  strong  are  timorous,  Doc 
tor  Castleton,  they're  tyrannical.  Now  here !  This 
one  word  for  a  last  one."  They  had  reached  their  own 
hotel,  but  the  speaker  faced  round  into  Philip's  path: 
"Do  you  know  why  we  Britons  get  on  so  well  with  the 
dark  races?  We  make  them  as  white — inside — as 
we  can,  as  fast  as  we  can,  yet  keep  ourselves  white, 
every  way,  without  force  or  fear.  We  stagger  and 
stumble,  but  somehow  even  when  we  fall  we — we 
fall  up-stairs.  Enough — you're — you're  bored.  You 
Americans  hate  your  race  question,  North  and  South; 
and  no  wonder,  you  handle  it  so  badly."  They  entered 
the  hotel. 

Near  the  breakfast-room  they  met  the  judge,  who 
tendered  Murray  his  daughter's  seat  at  table.  She  was 

27 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

breakfasting  in  her  room.    Philip  went  away,   but 
"would  be  back." 

The  judge  smiled  after  him.  "Can't  eat  till  he's 
told  his  auntie  good-morning.  When  he  went  off  to 
college  she  took  his  pledge  never  to  go  to  bed  without 
reading  his  Bible  and  he's  never  missed  a  night." 

The  Scot  sniffed.     "Oh,  it's  little  that  proves." 

"So  we  both  tell  her,  but  to  her  it  proves  everything 
— waiter,  bring  me  coffee,  shirred  eggs,  and  milk  bis 
cuits." 

The  Scot,  who  had  kept  that  same  pledge  for  twenty 
years,  looked  up  from  a  reverie.  "What  did  you 
order?  No  matter,  I'll  have  the  same.  I  can  say  a 
better  word  than  that  for  your  nephew." 

"You  mean  for  Phil?    He's  my  grandson." 

"True!    But  you're  such  chums,  you  know." 

"What  is  your  better  word?" 

Here  Philip  returned  and  took  his  seat,  the  Scot 
eyeing  him  steadily  and  responding:  "Retakes  a  con 
troversial  mauling  with  the  grace  of  an  ambassador." 

"Who,  I?"  Philip  laughed.  "Why,  Mr.  Murray, 
my  quick  temper's  my  weakest  plank.  You're  pulling 
my  leg." 

The  Scot  threw  up  a  hand  and  burrowed  for  his  note 
book:  "Pulling  y'r  leg.  Gad !  I'll  jot  that  down. " 

While  he  wrote,  Philip  told  the  judge  that  the  aunt 
hoped  to  see  him  before  he  should  go  out.  The  break 
fast  came,  and  when  the  book  was  put  away  the  Scot 
tapped  one  of  his  biscuits  with  a  fork.  "And  this,  I 
make  no  doubt,"  he  said,  "  is  a  buckwheat  cake  ?  " 

28 


WITH  ONE  MURRAY 

Neither  hearer  smiled.  The  pair  displayed  the  grace 
of  at  least  two  ambassadors  while  the  judge  told  what 
made  the  thing,  in  the  American  dialect,  a  biscuit,  and 
Philip  explained  the  nature  and  function  of  the  buck 
wheat  cake. 

Really,  they  enjoyed  their  untiring  questioner.  No 
aspect  of  American  life  escaped  his  blunt  probe,  and 
when  every  now  and  then  he  lit  upon  some  matter 
specially  Southern,  his  queries  were  so  oddly  put  that 
to  answer  them  was  entertainment  enough. 

And  the  Briton  was  pleased.  "Albeit  you're  South 
erners/'  he  remarked,  "you're  better  democrats — oca- 
demically — than  most  Americans  I  have  '  struck/  as 
you  say  in  Chicago.  You're  born  progressionists. " 

"We'd  like  to  be,"  said  the  judge,  and  Philip  added: 

"But  first  and  last  we'll  'live  and  die  for  Dixie.'" 

"Oh,  Lorrd!  Leave  that  to  the  mossbacks!  But 
you,  it's  a  mossback  you  are,  after  all — by  training." 

"I  get  my  training  from  the  judge,"  laughed  Philip. 

"  Ah,  from  fifteen  up !  But  before  that  from  y 'r 
awnt!" 

The  two  Castletons  smiled  steadily  at  each  other. 
The  three  men  rose.  They  bought  the  morning  papers. 
Then  they  started,  Philip  for  a  window-seat,  the 
Briton  for  the  open  air,  the  judge  to  find  his  daughter; 
but  a  second  impulse  turned  the  Scot  back  to  address 
the  judge  softly:  "See  here.  I've  a  lifetime  habit  o' 
stickin'  my  nose  into  other  people's  business.  May  I 
do  it  now?" 

"Why,  that's  very  friendly  of  you,  sir.    Say  it  out." 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"'Tis  but  this:  don't — up-stairs — be  beguiled,  will 
ye?" 

"As  to  what?" 

"To  vamoose  the  rawnch.  To  bounce  the  town,  this 
Boardwalk  and  fools'  paradise.  Don't  snatch  the  boy 
from  it." 

The  judge  twinkled.  "You  want  to  maul  him  some 
more?" 

"No,  no,  'tis  no'  for  that.  Major  Cas' — Judge,  I 
mean — I've  gone  as  daft  on  yon  lad  as  you  are.  And 
on  the  lass  as  well.  A  bit  ago,  seein'  them  together 
against  the  rising  sun,  thinks  I :  '  In  the  image  o'  God 
crreated  he  him !  Male  and  female  crreated  he  them/ 
Don't  parrt  them  yet.  If  I  can  read  their  title  clearr 
they're  chock-a-block  wi'  destiny.  Maybe  not;  I  don't 
counsel  folly;  I  say  be  not  rawsh.  You  wonder  why  I 
'butt  in.'  Well — for  this:  I — was  snatched  away  once, 
mysel'." 

The  pair  stood  silent.  Suddenly  the  judge's  hand 
went  out  to  the  Scot's.  Then  with  a  tardy  smile  he 
stepped  to  the  elevator  and  disappeared. 

"Oh,  ho-o!"  thought  the  Scot,  and  out  on  the 
Boardwalk  alone  he  added  aloud:  "I  ought  to  ha' 
guessed  that  too ! " 


30 


VII 
IN  THE  BLAZE  OF  DAY 

THIS  was  Vanity  Fair  in  spring,  not  summer.  No 
bathers  swarmed  in  the  surf.  Hardly  a  pleasure-boat 
was  out. 

Except  when  ebb-tide  made  room  on  the  beach  for 
saddle-horses  and  pony  phaetons  all  outdoor  pastimes 
were  on  the  Boardwalk.  Its  benches  held  but  few  sit 
ters,  but  afoot  or  in  wheel-chairs  thousands  drifted  to 
and  fro,  and  so  balmy  this  midday  was  the  breeze  that 
half  the  chairs  were  without  hoods. 

The  one  that  bore  Madame  Durel  and  Rosalie  was 
covered.  They  liked  the  covered  ones  best.  Close  be 
hind  them  strolled  the  two  bankers,  in  conversation. 
Often  these  halted  at  the  outer  rail,  while  the  two 
ladies  had  themselves  trundled  up  to  some  window  dis 
play  of  embroidery,  gowns,  or  millinery,  or  left  the 
chair  and  entered  a  jeweller's  shop  in  quest  of  the 
still  unfound  birthday-gift. 

What  care-free,  innocent  time-killing !  The  shops 
were  like  beds  of  flowers,  and  the  ladies  themselves 
were  the  butterflies.  The  salt  breath  of  the  Atlantic 
ruffled  their  brows,  and  half  round  the  compass  the 
ocean's  majesty  rewarded  every  lifted  glance. 

Miss  Castleton,  too,  was  out,  though  tardily.  There 
had  been  letters  to  write,  which  provoked  her  two  fond 

31 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

kinsmen  to  call  her  "Mary  and  Martha  doubled  and 
twisted."  For  one  letter  was  to  their  New  Orleans  do 
mestics  and  covered  pages  of  directions  for  having  their 
home  ready  to  receive  them  at  once;  the  other  was  to 
the  secretary  of  the  missionary  society  of  which  she  was 
president. 

Now,  however,  here  she  was,  in  a  wheel-chair  for  one, 
sincerely  happy  in  the  snugness  of  its  impregnable  lim 
itations.  About  it  hovered  her  father  and  nephew.  It 
was  but  fair  that  Philip,  especially,  should  see  to  it  that 
Vanity  Fair  should  repay  her  coming.  To  roam  the 
Boardwalk,  he  had  insisted,  was  a  unique  adventure, 
and  she  was  honestly  making  the  experiment  with  but 
one  reservation :  to  keep  clear  of  all  entanglements  with 
those  only  too  attractive  Durels. 

From  the  hotel  she  might  be  wheeled  in  either  of 
two  directions.  Southward  was  sea,  sky,  and  compara 
tive  seclusion.  Northward,  too,  were  sea  and  sky,  but 
also  the  crowd,  most  of  the  shops,  and  very  likely  the 
three  undesirables.  Yet  if  one  had  to  risk  an  uncov- 
eted  encounter,  in  the  crowd  was  the  place  to  risk  it, 
and  she  had  chosen  the  crowd.  Having  gone  well 
through  it,  to  where  the  Boardwalk  narrowed,  she  had 
turned  back  and,  once  more  in  the  throng,  had  had  her 
chair  faced  seaward  and  halted  at  the  outer  rail,  with 
all  the  tramping,  trundling  crowd  behind  her. 

The  day  was  resplendent.  A  sunlight  that  covered 
the  ocean  from  edge  to  edge  seemed  to  permeate  her 
frame.  Far  and  near  on  rocky  shoals  the  waters 
foamed  snow-white,  and  over  better  depths  sparkled 

32 


IN  THE  BLAZE  OF  DAY 

bluer  than  the  bluest  heaven.  The  surf's  wide  rollers 
chased  one  another  like  lines  of  revellers,  spread  glid- 
ingly  up  the  sands,  and  at  the  Boardwalk's  line  perished 
in  miracles  of  lace.  When  her  eye  rested  on  the  hori 
zon  her  soul  was  stirred  with  the  thought  that  the  first 
land  eastward  was  Spain  and  that  a  mere  degree  or 
two  to  the  right  lay  Africa,  its  sunny  fountains,  its 
golden  sands.  Miss  Castleton's  human  kindness  felt  a 
new  glow.  Her  church  had  missions  over  there  and  in 
China,  India,  and  the  Pacific — all  that  beautiful  world 
still  waiting  for  man  to  make  it  spiritually  so  much 
more  beautiful !  She  wanted  to  rise,  stretch  wings,  and 
take  the  ocean's  width  at  a  single  flight. 

Both  her  companions  admitted  that  scenery  some 
times  gave  them  that  impulse,  but  they  had  always 
fancied  it  more  physical  than  spiritual.  Philip  made 
further  concession: 

"Now,  this  morning  I  have  an  illusion  which  I  be 
lieve  is  mainly  spiritual;  I  seem  to  hear  every  now  and 
then  a  bird  singing."  He  turned  to  the  judge:  "Have 
you  never  had  that — illusion?" 

"Yes,  I've  had  it,"  was  the  reply,  and  while  Philip 
gazed  across  the  dazzling  waters  his  aunt  looked  stead 
ily  at  her  father  and,  unseen,  the  Durels  went  by  with 
the  Scot.  When  the  Castletons  moved  on  again  the 
other  three  were  a  hundred  yards  ahead.  There  an 
Israelite  was  holding  an  auction  of  Oriental  rugs,  mugs, 
drugs,  jugs — whatever  one  wanted  to  bid  on — and  ma- 
dame  and  Rosalie  had  gone  in  to  a  front  seat.  The 
two  bankers  had  stopped  close  beyond  at  a  shooting- 

33 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

gallery  and  were  showing  with  rules  such  skill  that 
others  were  looking  on. 

As  the  Castletons  drew  near,  the  aunt,  still  Mary 
and  Martha  in  one,  saw  two  Syrians  holding  up  a  rug, 
and  the  Israelite  inviting  bids.  Some  one  hidden  by 
feminine  hats  named  a  price,  which  he  proclaimed  com 
passionately.  And  really  the  rug  was  worth  three 
times  the  bid.  Moreover  it  was  the  exact  answer  to 
one  of  Miss  Castleton's  most  pressing  home  needs,  a 
need  she  had  tried  to  supply  in  Philadelphia.  She 
wheeled  near,  stopped,  and  raised  the  bid.  The  judge 
and  Philip  enjoyed  the  scene  a  moment,  moved  on  a 
step  and  discovered  the  two  bankers  at  their  pastime. 
They  took  a  hand.  To  humor  the  judge  the  rifles 
were  exchanged  for  pistols  and  with  these  the  Creole 
promptly  excelled  the  Scot,  the  judge  excelled  the  Cre 
ole,  and  Philip  led  them  all.  Crack!  the  bell  rang. 
Crack !  It  rang  again,  and  again,  and  again.  Onlook 
ers  tiptoed  and  craned,  the  Scot  cried  "Man!"  Durel 
said,  "Cr-r-r!"  the  judge  smiled,  Philip  laughed,  the 
bell  rang  on  and  the  bird  sang. 

As  the  four  turned  away  monsieur  touched  Philip: 
"You  are  the  bez'  shot  I  ever  see'  excep'  only  one." 
"And  who  may  that  be?"  put  in  the  Scot. 
"I  think  I  know,"  said  Philip. 
"You  think?  .  .  .    Well?" 
"Isn't  he  your  cousin,  Zephire  Durel?" 
"Zephire,  yes — though  he's  not  my  firz'  cousin." 
Philip  noticed  the  disclaimer.    The  bird  stopped 
singing. 

34 


IN  THE  BLAZE  OF  DAY 

So  much  more  interesting  did  the  four  marksmen 
become  as  they  were  rejoined  by  their  three  ladies, 
that  the  onlookers  moved  away  reluctantly,  convinced 
that  the  seven  were  millionaires.  Hardly  could  there 
have  been  just  then  in  all  Vanity  Fair  a  more  charming 
tableau  of  social  life.  A  radiance  of  adventure  in  the 
three  women  redoubled  their  beauty  and  was  almost  as 
brightly  reflected  by  the  four  men.  For  Miss  Castleton 
had  got  the  rug !  Idlers  paused  at  the  shop  to  see  it, 
while  the  seven,  moving  on,  told  and  heard  how  it  had 
been  got. 

At  the  height  of  the  bidding — so  ran  the  tale — Rosa 
lie,  identifying  her  opponent,  had  forthwith,  to  the 
open  chagrin  of  the  crier,  stopped  bidding  and  let  the 
victory  and  its  spoils  go  to  her  rival.  Miss  Castleton 
gave  her  version  to  the  judge  and  monsieur  with  grate 
ful  smiles  and  in  accents  of  distressed  apology,  while 
at  madame's  side  Rosalie  told  hers  to  the  Scot  and 
Philip  in  a  joy  of  self-denial  and  with  much  mirthful 
compassion  for  the  auctioneer.  Then  while  monsieur 
and  the  judge — with  Miss  Castleton  a  listener — walked 
on  debating  topics  of  the  day  Rosalie  and  madame, 
but  chiefly  Rosalie,  solicited  by  the  Scot,  told  an 
other  story  to  him  and  Philip — the  story  of  Ovide 
Landry. 

"  I  h'ard  a  bit  of  it  this  morrn,"  said  Murray — who 
in  his  dialect  was  as  inconsistent  as  the  Durels  in 
theirs — "from  one  o'  those  librarians,  and  just  now 
found  y'r  father,  Miss  Durel,  to  be  a  part  of  it  him 
self." 

35 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

The  ladies  gazed.    "  How  did  you  find  that  out  ?  " 

"From  him.  We'd  got  upon  the  subject  o'  y'r 
Southern  States,  y'r  South  or  what  you  may  call  it " 

"Dixie!"  sang  Rosalie. 

"Ay.  And  I  was  remarking,  casually,  how  far  be 
hind  the  worrld  you've  kept  yourselves " 

"By  good  fortune?"  Rosalie  archly  suggested. 

"There!"  cried  the  Scot  to  Philip.  "Could  any 
thing  show  plainer  y'r  Dixie's  pitiful  detachment  from 
the  worrld's  worrk  ?  Man !  you've  lost  all  thought  o' 
leading." 

"A  people,"  began  Philip,  beamingly  approved  by 
Rosalie,  "may  seem  not  to  lead  when  really " 

"Really  never  mind,"  said  the  Scot.  "Ye're  de- 
layin'  the  tale.  Mr.  Durel  and  I  had  come  down,  I  say 
— through  all  y'r  wonderful  fifty  years'  growth  in 
mines,  crops,  railways,  bawnks,  schools,  libraries,  thea 
tres,  mills — to  what  was  once  the  tap-root  o'  the  whole 
business " 

Philip  laughed:  "Oh,  yes,  the  darkey." 

"Ay,  him.  The  ball  and  chain  on  poor  Dixie's  leg. 
The  tap-root,  which,  tap-root  like,  has  been  absorbed 
into  the  tree  it  produced — swallowed  up  by  it — till 
now,  willy-nilly,  darkeys  or  none,  ye're  Dixie  to  stay; 
a  'Sunny  South'  sun-baked;  a  civilization  that,  after 
all's  said,  no  new  people  would  ever  dream  o'  copyin'." 

The  three  hearers  were  incensed.  Philip  flashed. 
He  and  Rosalie  began  to  speak  but  ceased.  The  Scot 
had  given  them  the  fellowship  of  a  common  resentment. 
Yet  courtesy  triumphed  and  madame,  with  an  air  of 

36 


IN  THE  BLAZE  OF  DAY 

absolute  innocence,  inquired :  "  You  'ave  no  pollytickle 
miztake'  yonder  accrozz  the  h-ocean?" 

"Madame,  we  rrreek  wi'  mistakes;  God  help  the  peo 
ple  who  fawncy  they  don't  or  that  their  ache  is  not  the 
worrld's  ache.  But" — the  fault-finder  turned  to  Rosa 
lie — "your  story !  Your  father  bade  me  ask  it  of  you. 
He'd  begun  to  tell  me  how  much  better  y'r  Dixie  has 
hawndled  her  black  millions  than  ever  y'r  North  did, 
when  says  I :  '  Hold  !  In  this  lawnd  of  overdone  indi- 
veedualism  how  many  indweedual  darkeys  has  y'r 
Dixie  lifted  up  out  o'  the  common  mawss  to  inspire 
and  lead  the  rest  ? '  And  when  he  hemmed  and  swal 
lowed  and  I  broke  in  to  tell  o'  this  man  Lawndry,  bless 
me !  I  find  Lawndry  was  once,  madame,  a  bond-slave 
in  your  father's  family." 

Madame  smiled  a  lovely  pride.     "  Yes,  'tis  true." 
The  wheel-chair  turned  and  stopped  at  the  rail  over 
looking  the  ocean.     Miss  Castleton's  chair  came  beside 
it,  and  the  three  Durels,  led  by  Rosalie,  told  the  tale. 


37 


VIII 
STRIKING  CHORDS  AND  DISCORDS 

OVIDE  lived  at  the  back  of  his  second-hand  bookshop 
in  Chartres  Street,  New  Orleans,  about  as  far  above 
the  cathedral,  monsieur  said,  as  Zephire  Durel's  Orleans 
Street  rooms  were  behind  it. 

He  was  a  pure-blooded  negro  of  seventy,  born  the 
slave  of  Mme.  Durel's  father  and  from  infancy  had  been 
allotted  to  her  elder  brother  as  playmate  and  body- 
servant.  The  master  had  permitted  his  son,  and  later 
his  little  daughter,  to  teach  the  lad  as  much  of  their 
schooling  as  he  cared  to  learn  and  when  the  slave 
proved  the  brighter  pupil 

"Egad  1"  murmured  the  Scot. 

"Ah!"  said  madame,  "that  sometime'  tranzpire', 
that  pic-uliarity — whiles  young,"  and  Rosalie  spoke  on. 

The  slave  boy  was  offered  his  freedom.  This  meant 
more  in  Louisiana  than  in  any  other  slave  State,  yet 
the  lad  refused  his  liberty.  Later  he  went  with  his 
two  masters,  father  and  son,  to  the  war  in  Virginia, 
and  in  less  than  a  year  brought  them  home  dead.  In 
New  Orleans,  in  '63,  he  was  a  freedman,  and  in  '66, 
two  years  before  Enfranchisement,  he  had  entered  po 
litical  life  as  secretary  to  a  State  treasurer.  Through 
the  whole  Reconstruction  period  he  had  gained  a  par- 

38 


STRIKING  CHORDS  AND  DISCORDS 

ticipant's  knowledge  of  the  State's  inmost  history  and 
throughout  that  cyclone  of  corruption  had  led  an  up 
right  life,  owing  his  integrity  first  to  his  mother  and 
then,  only  less,  to  the  little  maiden  now  this  grand 'mere 
of  Rosalie.  In  the  scramble  for  office  his  uprightness 
had  unfailingly  crowded  him  out,  yet  his  talents  had 
kept  him  in  the  public  service.  During  all  that  period 
he  had  been  private  secretary  to  this  or  that  lieutenant- 
governor,  the  lieutenant-governorship  being  uniformly 
conceded  to  a  negro.  Even  in  later  years  he  had  been 
called,  from  time  to  time,  into  momentary  secretarial 
service  because  of  his  expert  intimacy  with  a  labyrin 
thine  past.  Now  he  was  reduced  to  shopkeeping,  yet 
of  the  most  congenial  sort,  the  Durels  felt  sure,  that  he 
could  have  found. 

Rosalie  waved  a  hand;  the  tale  was  ended.  And  she 
was  glad.  Her  love  for  her  half-sick  father  quickened 
her  to  perceive  that  the  Scot,  the  story,  and  somehow 
Philip,  too,  had  got  his  nerves  on  edge. 

"And  since  long  time,"  madame  commented,  "a 
sizter  to  the  wife  of  Ovide  is  one  of  my  housemaid'." 

Monsieur  smiled  faintly  to  the  Scot.     "Well?" 

"'Tis  a  tragedy,  Mr.  Durel,  to  the  seeing  eye." 

"And  teaching  us — what?" 

"Ah,  that's  for  you  and  y'r  Dixie  to  say.  Such 
things,  anywhere,  have  to  come  by  the  thousand  to 
teach  much." 

"To  those  who  don't  care  to  learn,  eh?" 

The  Creole  was  courtesy  itself.  Only  Rosalie  and 
Miss  Castleton  discerned  his  irritation. 

39 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

The  Soot  turned  to  Philip:  "What  does  it  teach 
you?" 

Rosalie  broke  in,  all  gayety :  "That  it  is  going  to  rain 
— before  a  month ! " 

"And  that  the  sea  is  wide  and  deep !"  Philip  put  in. 

But  M.  Durel,  not  even  himself  recognizing  that  for 
a  reason  well  concealed  he  was  fighting  down  an  im 
pulse  to  be  fond  of  the  youth,  repeated  Murray's  chal 
lenge: 

"What  does  it  teach,  Mr.  Cazzleton,  thad  story?" 

"Why,  I'm  not  sure/'  said  Philip.  "It  lights  up  a 
new  view  to  which  I've  long  been  coming." 

His  aunt  was  suddenly,  prettily,  anxious,  though  her 
words  were  slow  and  soft.  "  Oh,  Phil,  I  don't  like  new 
views!  The  truth  isn't  new.  Truth  is  eternal!" 

"True,  auntie !"  he  said  with  playful  finality. 

But  M.  Durel,  with  the  same  courtesy  as  before,  in 
sisted:  "Ah,  but  still,  views,  we  can  state  them,  eh?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  Philip  began  again;  but  again 
he  stopped.  Yet  why  ?  The  conversation  was  flowing 
naturally.  He  forgot — to  Rosalie's  exquisite  annoy 
ance — that  conversation  flows  not  by  nature  but  by 
art.  His  eyes  were  not  on  her,  yet  he  saw  her.  Her 
eyes  were  not  on  him,  yet  he  saw  in  them  a  warning,  to 
him,  to  be  silent.  On  the  other  hand,  he  perceived 
also  that  his  aunt  saw  the  warning,  and  both  in  Rosa 
lie's  defense  and  in  scorn  of  subtlety  he  spoke.  For 
what  could  he  say  about  Ovide  or  any  of  his  heart* 
wearying  race,  to  which  either  she  or  her  father  could 
object?  "Well,"  he  said  with  a  gay  frown,  "if  tin 

40 


STRIKING  CHORDS  AND  DISCORDS 

company  enjoys  views — Ovide,  for  me,  shows  this  fact 
which  needs  to  be  shown;  that  whereas " 

"Ah!"  cried  Rosalie,  "resolved  that  whereas !" 

"Whereas,"  repeated  Philip,  "our  old  South  could 
give  him  no  worthy,  no  American  freedom,  nor  the 
North  give  him  an  American  freedom  over  the  New 
South's  head,  the  New  South  crowds  him  half-way 
down  again  to  his  old  slavery  and " 

"And  points  wi'  pride,"  unluckily  put  in  the  Scot. 

It  was  one  word  too  many.  The  Creole  gracefully 
lifted  a  hand.  "Yes !  And  yet — even  down  in  Dixie — 
we  don'  point  those  thing'  to  the  stranger.  And  me,  I 
muz'  confess  me  astonizh'  to  find — here — in  the  North 
— a  Louisianian  to  say  such  a  thing  like  that !" 

"Dear  me,  sir!"  the  Scot  began,  but  Philip  checked 
him.  Madame  and  Miss  Castleton  sat  in  blank  dis 
may  while  between  them  Rosalie  laughingly  cried: 

"  And  that's  the  last  on  that  subject !  Ha,  ha,  papa, 
you  are  not  so  astonished  as  hungry !  Already  'tis 
time  for  lunch,  and  'mere's  present  is  yet  unfound ! " 

Shortly  afterward,  alone  in  her  closed  room,  her  self- 
command  ebbed  low.  Standing  at  her  dressing-table, 
with  tremulous  hand  she  lifted  from  it  one  dainty 
appliance  after  another,  of  silver  or  ivory,  and  then 
laid  it  down  again,  helpless  to  remind  herself  what  it 
was  for.  At  a  window  that  looked  down  upon  the 
thronged  Boardwalk  and  the  big  surf  beyond  it  she 
gazed  but  did  not  see.  She  looked  across  the  ocean 
to  its  farthest  margin,  yet  saw  only  with  memory's 
eye;  saw  a  young  man,  shapely,  strong,  mute,  flushed, 

41 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

facing  her  father,  not  letting  his  own  eyes  appeal,  for 
an  instant,  to  any  others,  even  to  hers.  Coming  again 
to  the  toilet-table  she  sat  down,  and  in  her  native 
tongue  said  to  its  mirror,  silently: 

"What  of  it?  What  of  it?  What  matters  it  to 
you,  Rosalie  Durel?"  She  left  her  seat  and  again 
began  to  handle  things  absently,  while  her  pulse 
throbbed  the  mute  confession:  "'Twas  never  like  this 
before.  Never  like — "  A  touch  on  her  door-knob — 
a  gentle  call. 

"Oui!  Go  you  both  down,"  she  answered.  "I'm 
coming." 

Yet  she  tarried.  Idly  she  opened  a  drawer,  idly 
closed  it.  She  stepped  toward  the  door,  but  near  it 
stopped  to  listen.  From  far  away  seemed  to  come  a 
faint,  sweet  warbling.  Could  it  be  real  ?  Was  it  illu 
sion?  She  listened  more  intently,  within,  without. 
Then  after  a  deep  breath  she  recovered  herself  and 
opened  the  door.  Suddenly  the  sweet  far  carol  was 
near— a  trivial  reality — some  woman's  captive  bird  in 
a  room  across  the  corridor.  Nevertheless,  down  at 
lunch  she  made  no  mention  of  birds.  Unlike  Philip 
Castleton,  a  girl,  a  Creole  girl,  knows  better.  Little 
birds  are  not  to  be  trusted.  They  tell  too  much. 


42 


IX 

AND  AGAIN,  IN  FLIGHT 

THE  sun  swung  low,  grew  red  and  vast  in  a  wide 
splendor  of  sea  and  sky,  touched  the  horizon,  sank, 
filled  the  world  with  the  light  that  sets  lovers  longing, 
and  was  gone. 

Out  that  way,  with  Vanity  Fair  miles  behind  him, 
Philip,  afoot  on  the  narrowed  Boardwalk,  went  on  and 
on,  alone  with  his  vexation.  When  at  length  he  faced 
round,  the  stars  were  coming  out.  The  distant  city 
began  to  glitter.  Some  fifty  yards  before  him  a  soli 
tary  wheel-chair  also  had  turned  townward.  Its  two 
occupants,  father  and  daughter,  had  seen  him  a  good 
half-hour  earlier  and  without  either  of  them  hinting 
for  better  speed  had  hoped  to  overtake  him.  Now, 
retracing  their  way,  their  still  unbetrayed  hope  was 
that  they  might  be  overtaken.  But  Philip,  hot  yet 
after  the  forenoon's  incident,  kept  his  distance  lest  by 
one  chance  in  a  thousand  the  lone  chair  might  hold 
just  those  two  whom  in  fact  it  held. 

So  he  reached  his  hotel  and  they  reached  theirs. 
The  beautiful  night  came  on.  After  dinner  the  judge 
and  his  daughter  played  backgammon  while  Philip 
close  by  tried  to  work  on  a  lecture,  haunted  by  the 
knowledge  that  the  irrepressible  Scot,  at  the  other 
hotel,  had  hunted  down  or  was  stalking  the  Durels. 

43 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

At  length  Murray  reappeared,  explaining  why  he  had 
not  gone  the  Ventnor  way  at  sunset,  and  telling  what 
a  rich  conversation  he  had  just  been  having  with  the 
three  Creoles  about  social  New  Orleans  and  its  lam 
entable  Americanization  of  manners.  Unsmilingly  he 
consulted  his  note-book  and  recounted  with  what  droll 
innocence  they  had  misnamed  some  things;  called  sole 
cisms  "  indecorances  "  and  gross  manners  "  corrupt  prac 
tices."  One  remark  he  had  stopped  under  a  Boardwalk 
lamp  to  record  in  full,  and  the  gravity  with  which  he 
read  it  out  gave  Philip  the  best  laugh  he  had  had  since 
M.  Durel's  "astonizhment."  It  was  the  lament  of 
the  elder  Durels  that  "the  younger  generation  of 
Creole',  they  follow  their  incline  to  persuade  their 
parent'  to  led  them  go  their  own  way  in  the  new 
Ammerican  fashion." 

But  Murray's  most  stirring  communication  was 
made  to  Philip  apart  when  the  judge  and  the  aunt  had 
resumed  the  dice  to  complete  their  final  rubber.  It 
was  then  that  he  told  how,  accompanied  on  the  piano 
by  grand'mere,  Rosalie,  entreated  by  certain  young 
people  who  had  found  out  her  talent,  had  sung  French 
and  English  songs  for  them,  and  a  Scotch  one  for  him ! 
When  he  said  good  night  to  Miss  Castleton  she  added 
to  her  reciprocation  a  bit  of  news  that  drew  from  him 
eager  but  vain  protests. 

Outside  Philip's  windows — and  his  aunt's — and  M. 
Durel's — and  Rosalie's — a  silver  glory  poured  down  on 
wave  and  Boardwalk,  laid  sleep  on  thousands  of  eyes, 
wore  through  the  small  hours  into  dawn  and  flushed 

44 


AND  AGAIN,  IN  FLIGHT 

into  day.  Then,  while  it  was  yet  morning  a  train 
porter  at  Vanity  Fair's  chief  railway-station  led  the 
Castletons  aboard  a  Philadelphia  train  and  showed 
them  seats  seven,  nine,  and  eleven.  But  the  aunt  de 
murred:  "Why,  those  are  not  our  numbers." 

"  Yass'm,  you-all  name'  D jurel,  ain't  you  ?  " 

"Our  name  is  Castleton." 

"Law',  tubby  sho' I  Here  yo'-all's  seat;  eight,  ten, 
twel' — here  come'  sebm,  nine,  elebm  now!" 

And  the  Castletons  and  the  Durels,  each  fleeing 
homeward  from  the  other,  sat  down  face  to  face.  The 
train  moved.  Philip  promptly  believed  the  Durel  part 
of  the  matter  was  Rosalie's  doing,  and  in  a  way  he  was 
right.  Candidly,  she  had  been  a  bit  subtle.  Her 
Boardwalk  chase  after  him  in  the  sunset,  and  her 
equally  vain  loitering  for  him  back  again  in  the  twi 
light,  had  given  her  as  keen  an  indignation  against 
him  as  she  fancied  he  still  harbored  against  her  father; 
and  when  at  the  hotel  dinner-table  she  saw  "  Let  us  go 
home  by  the  first  train  to-morrow"  hovering  on  mon 
sieur's  brow,  she  had  hastened  to  say  it  herself. 

"Yes,"  she  added,  "here  is  no  rest  for  you.  Better 
even  the  bank.  Let  us  go." 

So  here  they  were.  The  moment  she  sighted  Miss 
Castleton  she  knew  who  on  that  side  was  to  blame.  Yet 
it  suited  her  mood  to  blame  Philip  also,  and  so  she  gave 
each  of  them  the  whole  burden.  Not  so  monsieur  or 
grand 'mere;  they  put  it  undividedly  where  it  belonged. 
For  they  had  an  old  reason,  older  than  Rosalie,  and  to 
her  unknown.  Naturally,  there  were  good-mornings 

45 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

all  round,  gayety  over  the  encounter,  and  secret  joy  on 
finding,  soon,  that  one  group  was  going  the  Richmond 
route,  the  other  the  Chattanooga.  Their  ways  would 
divide  in  a  few  hours  at  Washington. 

Good-by  also  to  Vanity  Fair.  They  crossed  the*  In 
let.  The  sea-marshes,  in  delicate  hues  of  spring,  im 
mersed  in  morning  sunlight  and  braided  with  the  colors 
of  the  sky  on  pools  and  streams,  well  justified  the  atten 
tion  which  Rosalie  besought  grand'mere  to  give  them, 
an  attention  that  afforded  the  Castletons  comfortable 
opportunities  to  contemplate,  obliquely,  two  perfect 
Creole  necks  under  masses  of  dark  hair.  But  Rosalie 
must  have  had  a  power  of  vision  besides  that  of  the 
eyes,  for  when  Philip  silently  showed  the  judge  a  cigar, 
and  the  two  men  started  for  the  smoking-compartment, 
she  turned  from  the  landscape  to  her  father  and  said, 
wholly  with  the  eye: 

"Now  is  your  time.  For  your  own  sake,  for  the 
Durel  name,  for  the  old  Creole  courtesies,  not  for  his 
sake  and,  above  all,  not  for  mine." 

A  minute  later  the  banker,  also  with  a  cigar,  stepped 
inside  the  smoking-room  curtain.  Philip  hurriedly 
rose,  the  judge  kept  his  seat,  and  the  Creole  spoke: 

"Mr.  Cazzleton,  I  diz-ire,  for  the  firzj  time  in  my 
life,  to  ap-ologize." 

Philip  colored.  "Oh,  Mr.  Durel,  I  had  no  right  to 
astonish  you."  He  reddened  more.  "At  least  I " 

"Yes.  ...  You  had  the  right.  ...  Me,  I  had 
no  right  to  be  astonizh'  after  that  manner."  The 
banker  offered  a  hand. 

46 


AND  AGAIN,  IN  FLIGHT 

Philip  caught  it.  His  eyes  seemed  to  have  some 
thing  fine  to  utter,  but  his  lips  failed  to  deliver  it,  and 
the  banker  waved  it  away.  The  judge  stood  up, 
smokers'  courtesies  followed,  and  monsieur,  as  he  blew 
his  first  puff,  sat  down  between  the  other  two.  Said 
the  judge  for  a  start: 

"This  region  is  what  the  artists  call  very  pain  table/' 

The  Creole  puffed  again. 

"Flat  lands,"  said  Philip,  "generally  are.  Mr.  Mur 
ray  wonders  why  Louisiana  doesn't  attract  the  paint 


ers." 


Contemplating  his  cigar  M.  Durel  slowly  remarked : 
"Men  paint  best  their  own  lands.  Louisiana  is  wait 
ing  to  be  paint'  by  a  Louisianian." 

"Just  what  I  told  him !"  said  Philip. 

"And  w'at  he  said?  .  .  .  Ah,  come!  That  man  he 
cannot  astonizh  me.  He  said  w'at  ? " 

"He  asked  why  she  should  wait  two  hundred  years." 

The  Creole  straightened  up.  "That  was  to  trap  you 
aggain  into  politic' !" 

Philip's  amusement  grew.  "No;  he  knows  I  don't 
need  to  be  trapped.  Mr.  Durel,  I  think  we  Southern 
ers  ought  to  welcome  outside  criticism." 

"  Ah,  you  think  ?    For  w'at  ?  " 

"Well,  maybe  we  don't  know  our  own  case  perfectly 
yet.  If  we  do,  why  can't  we  state  it  more  convinc 
ingly?" 

"We  don't  need.    To  know,  tha'z  enough." 

"  Really,  is  it  ?    Don't  we  need  also  to  cure  it  ?  " 

"We  are  curing  it." 

47 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"H'mm!  are  we?  We've  got  some  mighty  soft  old 
spots  in  our  political  lungs;  grandfather  clauses — one- 
party  elections — unwritten,  unwritable  laws — and  it 
doesn't  help  us  a  bit  to  tell  every  Mr.  Murray  who  no 
tices  our  cough  that  all  social  systems  are  more  or  less 
tuberculous.  Let  Mr.  Murray  say  that."  He  turned 
to  his  grandfather.  "I  wish  they'd  notice  us  more. 
I'm  tired  of  our  isolation." 

"You  call  the  New  South  isolate'  ?"  asked  monsieur. 

"Yes,  the  newest !  and  I'm  tired  of  the  world's  con 
sent  to  it.  It  looks  like  despair  of  us.  I  want  our 
policy  discussed  in  the  world's  forum.  Don't  you, 
judge?" 

The  judge  smiled;  his  reply  was  tardy.  "I  don't  see 
what  this  has  to  do  with  landscapes,"  he  said. 

"Not  a  thing!"  Philip  eagerly  agreed.  "Now  I 
owe  Mr.  Durel  an  apology." 

"  No,"  said  the  Creole,  "  on  the  contrary."  The  talk 
had  been  longer  than  here  appears  and  the  cigar  he 
tossed  from  the  window  was  well  used  up.  "Mr.  Caz- 
zleton,  in  some  rigard'  you  are  like  yo'  father." 

Philip  rose  briskly.  He  fancied  a  hint  of  something 
unflattering  in  the  remark.  "You  knew  my  father?" 

"In  a — public  way,  yes."  The  banker  turned  to 
the  judge.  "I  think  the  son  is,  like  the  father  was,  a 
litt'  bit  doctrinaire,  eh  ?  "  He  smiled  back  to  Philip. 

"Yes,"  said  the  judge,  evidently  referring  to  an 
earlier  personal  contact,  "enough  for  some  old-fashioned 
beliefs;  rule  of  the  majority,  for  instance." 

"Majority  of  the  whole  people,"  Philip  gayly  put  in. 
48 


AND  AGAIN,  IN  FLIGHT 

"Ah!"  cried  monsieur,  "me  likewise  I  Only  tha'z 
providing  what  you  call  the  whole  people.  ...  I  be 
lieve  I'll  riturn  to  my  ladies."  He  went. 

The  two  kinsmen  resumed  their  seats.  "Well!" 
laughed  Philip,  "that's  the  gracefulest  way  I  was  ever 
dubbed  a  fool.  Were  he  and  my  father  friends — or 
what?" 

"Hardly  either.    I'll  tell  you  about  that  some  day." 

"Humph!    He  certainly  doesn't  take  any  shine  to 


me." 


"I  think  he  only  wishes  he  didn't." 
"  Why,  what  for  ?    Can't  you  tell  me  that  ?  " 
"Not  now;  we  haven't  finished  about  the  landscape." 
Other  smokers  came  in.    When  the  pair  returned  to 
Miss  Castleton,  Philip  was  surprised  to  find  M.  Durel 
in  his,  Philip's,  seat,  conversing  with  her;  but  the  sur 
prise  was  redoubled  when  monsieur,  instead  of  rising, 
waved  him  into  a  seat  between  madame  and  Rosalie. 


49 


HOMEWARD 

AFTER  all,  it  was  not  so  very  inexplicable,  Philip's 
unsought  privilege.  For  his  new  seat  was  just  opposite 
his  aunt,  while  madame  faced  the  judge,  and  Rosalie 
her  father. 

At  the  same  time,  if  monsieur  had  manoeuvred  this 
he  had  done  so  as  gracefully  as  he  had  called  Philip 
that  hard  name  in  the  smoking-room.  The  young 
man's  surprise  faded.  For  what  could  a  young  man 
and  a  maiden  talk  about  thus  besieged?  Yet  he  re 
minded  himself  that  this  was  merely  the  old  Creole 
way.  He  thoroughly  liked  the  absence  of  all  sign  of 
that  modernism  whose  devotees  "follow  their  incline 
to  persuade  their  parent' " 

Rosalie  mentioned  the  perfect  weather.  Down  in 
New  Orleans  it  would  be  far  warmer,  yet  quite  as  per 
fect.  Loyalty  could  say  no  less.  Philip,  copying  the 
judge,  remarked  how  paintable  the  landscape  was. 

"I  think  all  flat  lands  are  so,  don't  you?" 

Oh,  she  thought  so!  Assuredly!  She  had  noticed 
— enjoyed — in  him  a  habit  of  brightening  as  his  words 
grew  serious  and  observed  it  now  while  he  said: 

"As  for  Louisiana,  with  a — something — I  don't 
know — an  almost  tragic  quality  in  her  woods  and 

skies " 

50 


HOMEWARD 

She  broke  in:  "Ah,  Louisiana !  the  most  pain  table  in 
the  world !  Sister  Claude,  my  drawing-teacher  in  the 
convent,  assured  me  that.'* 

Convent !  Across  the  aisle  Miss  Castleton  inwardly 
winced,  but  to  Philip  the  main  point  was  the  vastness 
of  Louisiana's  claim.  "Well,  at  any  rate,"  he  began. 

"Ah,  of  course,  in  the  world  there  are  so  many  flat 
lands,  and  Sister  Claude  has  never  been  from  the  city 
— she  probably  exaggerated  without  suspecting." 

Both  M.  Durel  and  Miss  Castleton,  seemingly  im 
mersed  in  their  own  conversation,  kept  an  alert  ear  for 
a  certain  sign  in  Philip,  a  measuring  of  hours  as  months, 
of  days  as  years — the  lover's  note;  and  in  the  next 
breath,  quite  unconsciously,  it  came.  His  voice  sof 
tened.  "That  reminds  me  of  the  first  thing  we  ever 
talked  about  together.  You  remember,  don't  you?" 

"  When  was  that  ?    I  suppose  we  didn't  agree,  eh  ?  " 

"Why,  didn't  we?  About  us  Southerners  needing 
to  study  other  regions  and  peoples  to  know  ourselves 
better?" 

"Ah!  to  study — anything — is  bad  enough,  but  the 
North — already  I  am  fatigued  studying  the  North ! " 

"A  bird  may  get  fatigued  singing.  You  do,  I  sup 
pose.  But  you  get  rested  again." 

"  Who  told  you  I  can  sing  ?    Was  that  Mr.  Murray  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  he  says  you're  the  leading  voice  in  the  cathe 
dral  choir." 

"H'mm.  Pere  Racine  allows  me  that  privilege.  I 
am  compelled  to  sing  somewhere.  I  would  perish,  not 
singing." 

51 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Philip  lightened  to  praise  song  in  contrast  to  study, 
but  she,  mindful  of  the  hearers  he  had  forgotten,  said: 

"Have  you  thought  again  of  those — oh — those  re 
gions  and  peoples?'* 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  laughed.  "Thanks  to  Mr.  Murray, 
that  thought's  grown  a  tail  since  then." 

"A — "  She  caught  breath  and  then  sparkled: 
"Wag  it!" 

"Oh,"  said  Philip,  "it's  visible  only  to  the  ear  and 
quite  too  political  to  wag — under  the  circumstances." 

"On  the  contrary!  Tis  the  best  circumstance  and 
the  best  kind  to  wag ! "  Then  with  a  gravity  so  abrupt, 
genuine,  and  lustrous  that  Philip's  heart  beat  con 
sciously,  the  challenger  added :  "  I  like  politics.  I  read 
them  always  in  the  paper.  Tell  me  that  one  political 
thought!" 

"Why,  it's  only  the  other  one  turned  round.  I 
spoke  it  just  now  to  your  father — that  we  Southerners 
ought  to  be  glad  to  be  studied,  even  to  be  criticised, 
by  outsiders  far  and  near."  Smilingly  he  warmed: 
"You  know " 

But  she  could  not  wait.  "You  should  write  about 
that !  I  am  sure  you'd  be  pretty  soon  able  to  write  as 
good  as  some  of  those  reporters." 

"I  hope  so,"  responded  Philip,  but  his  glow  had 
faded  and  he  was  again  aware  of  the  pair  across  the 
aisle.  It  would  have  pleased  him  to  tell  her — and  let 
her  father  hear  it  if  he  chose! — that  two  reviews  at 
that  moment  had  his  pages  in  type.  But  he  forbore. 
His  aunt  might  have  told  that  much  for  him,  but  she 

52 


HOMEWARD 

seemed  profoundly  engrossed  as  a  listener  to  monsieur, 
who  was  speaking  of  artichokes  or  something. 

"Shall  I  tell  you,"  Philip  asked,  "what  I  think  the 
right  man,  the  right  Southerner,  ought  to  do?  My 
father,  a  lawyer,  like  the  judge,  planned  to  do  it.  He'd 
already  gathered  a  lot  of  material,  when " 

"Yes,"  said  Rosalie,  both  sympathetic  and  eager. 

It  is  wonderful  on  what  dry  hay  not  Bottom  only 
but  Titania  herself  can  feed  and  thrive  without  either 
of  them  suspecting,  or  suspecting  any  one  else  of  sus 
pecting,  what  is  really  going  on.  Under  the  spell  of 
Rosalie's  questionings  and  marvellings  and  with  a 
growing  enjoyment  which  largely  offset  the  topic's  dry- 
ness,  Philip  unfolded  his  father's  design.  It  had  been 
to  put  forth — primarily  in  the  South's  own  behalf,  of 
course — a  small,  terse  book  interesting  only  to  the 
very  earnest. 

"  Yes !"  murmured  Rosalie,  leaning  forward  intently. 

The  book,  Philip  went  on  to  say,  was  to  have  stated 
in  geometrical  bareness  "The  Southern  Theorem,"  a 
clear,  detailed  plan  of  what  the  South  wants  to  do,  so 
cially,  politically,  in  order  to  fill  her  place  in  the  world's 
and  America's  progress,  and  a  full  moral,  logical,  prac 
tical  justification  of  it  through  illuminating  compari 
sons  with  the  experiments  of  other  peoples  in  other 
regions. 

"Regions,"  whispered  Rosalie  absorbedly. 


53 


XI 

A  BRIEF  WAY  TOGETHER 

"  UNDER  like  or  unlike  conditions,"  continued  Philip. 
"But  my  father  had  felt  this  same  need — to  see,  him 
self,  those  other  experiments  and  regions " 

Rosalie's  compassionate  murmur  came  again:  "Re 
gions " 

"And  on  seeking  counsel  with  other  men  he  found 
Northerners  so  uninterested  and  compliant  and  South 
erners  so  eager  to  tell  what  the  South  must  never, 
never  do  or  suffer  to  be  done,  that  he  had  hardly  penned 
a  line  when " 


(t  )r 


'Twas  too  late ! "  sighed  the  fair  listener  and  sank 
back  in  meditation.  "Our  Southern  Question  is  the 
greatest  in  the  world.  .  .  .  You  don't  think  so  ? " 

That  he  would  say  exactly  what  he  did  think  she 
seemed  unable  to  doubt.  His  quiet  way  of  growing 
luminous  where  most  men  would  grow  dark — dull — 
may  have  meant  little  to  a  stranger  glancing  over  the 
top  of  his  magazine  three  seats  away,  or  even  to  M. 
Durel  or  Miss  Castleton,  though  at  this  point  their 
own  conversation  failed  and  they  openly  looked  and 
listened;  but  to  Rosalie,  rightly  or  wrongly,  it  implied 
in  him  a  latent,  masculine  modesty,  fearlessness,  kind 
ness,  and  integrity  so  four-square  and  so  happily  bal 
anced  that,  whatever  he  talked  of,  she  wanted  to  hear 

54 


A  BRIEF  WAY  TOGETHER 

him.    Her  guarded  vivacity  betrayed  this  want  to  the 
two  listeners  as  Philip  said: 

"The  setting  sun  last  evening  gave  me  thoughts." 
At  that  mention  something  passed  between  them  too 
spiritual  for  any  outward  sense,  yet  both  kept  their 
balance. 

"  'Twas  glorious ! "  said  the  girl.  "  Papa  and  I  saw 
it  together.  I  could  think  of  nothing  else ! " 

"And  you  remember,  don't  you,  how  we  talked  yes 
terday  with  Mr.  Murray?  Well,  he  made  me  sore!" 
They  laughed.  "And  as  I  saw  that  sun  in  all  his 
glory  no  bigger  than  a  cart-wheel,  I  thought  how  right 
it  is  that  to  us  humans" — facing  monsieur  to  include 
him  he  drew  also  the  attention  of  madame  and  the 
judge — "our  own  little  world  should  seem  bigger  than 
the  sun,  and  that  to  us  Southerners  our  Dixie  should 
seem  the  biggest  piece  of  the  world." 

"And  yet,"  smilingly  put  in  the  judge,  "there's  a 
right  way  for  it  to  seem  so  and  a  wrong  way." 

"Indeed,  yes!"  madame  chimed  in  as  though  they 
two  had  been  talking  of  nothing  else  all  along. 

"And  that  right  way  is — what?"  asked  Rosalie. 
She  asked  the  judge,  but  the  quick  reply  came  from 
Miss  Castleton,  with  a  smile  of  emotional  invincibility: 

"That  is  as  Dixie,  in  her  divine  right,  may  decide!" 

"Ah,  positively  !"  said  Mme.  Durel,  while  Philip  and 
the  judge  fondly  laughed  and  the  two  other  Durels 
forbore.  With  courtly  gravity  monsieur  addressed 
Philip: 

"Tha'z  your  opinion  also?  ...    No?" 
55 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

The  youth  gave  half  his  reply  to  his  questioner,  the 
remainder  to  Rosalie.  "No,  sir;  oh,  no.  In  my  notion 
Dixie's  to  us  rightly  the  biggest  piece  of  the  world  be 
cause  it's  that  part  for  which  we're  answerable  to  the 
world.  So  I  say  let's  court  criticism.  Let's  study 
others'  experiments.  For  we're  answerable  to  the 
world  by  the  world's  standards  unless  our  own  are  bet 
ter;  not  feel  better  but  are  better;  better  for  the  world." 

The  aunt  sighed  but  could  still  smile — regretfully — 
to  the  Durels  while  saying:  "My  boy,  they  are  better ! 
We're  answerable  to  ourselves  and  our  Creator  I" 

"Oh,  of  course,  but  through  the  world  that  we're 
a  piece  of — hold  on!  Now,  gentlemen" — he  almost 
laughed— "I  didn't  start  this." 

"'Twas  I  started  it,"  said  Rosalie. 

"Anyhow,  auntie,  let's  not  say  the  world,  let's  say 
the  nation.  Dixie  isn't  a  nation  or  a  government. 
The  American  Government  and  nation  are  answerable 
for  us,  Dixie,  to  the  world  of  nations  and  governments 
and  we're  answerable  to  America;  so  answerable  that 
we  can't  reach  over  her  head  or  behind  her  back  to 
answer  even  to  heaven."  He  faced  Rosalie:  "Heaven 
won't  take  our  answer  that  way." 

"Why,  Phil,  you're  almost  sacrilegious." 

"So  were  the  prophets,  auntie."  He  turned  again 
to  the  girl:  "But  I'm  neither  a  prophet  nor  a  pedant." 

At  that  they  all  contrived  to  laugh.  "You  are 
only — "  began  Rosalie,  but  her  father,  in  open  irony, 
prompted: 

"A  good  Southerner!" 

56 


A  BRIEF  WAY  TOGETHER 

Philip  both  smiled  and  reddened.  "No,  I'm  more  be 
sides.  I'm  an  American  citizen  on  the  American  plan." 

Under  cover  of  another  laugh  the  four  seniors  paired 
off  again,  and  the  man  with  the  magazine,  seeing  Rosa 
lie  about  to  query  Philip,  spread  his  ears.  "American 
plan?"  she  asked.  "What  means  that — when  it  don't 
mean  hotel?" 

"  Oh — to  one  man  it's  one  thing,  to  another,  another. 
To  me  it's  three.  Shall  I  name  them?  They're  for 
midable:  the  Constitution,  the  Declaration,  and  the 
Moral  Law.  If  that  makes  me  a  political  prig " 

"You  can't  help  that !"  she  said,  dropping  her  hands 
despairingly  into  her  lap,  and  for  reply  he  clapped  a 
palm  on  an  arm  of  his  chair. 

Rosalie  tipped  her  head,  an  action  which  invariably 
tipped  his  heart,  and  softly  chanted,  "Do,  mi,  sol," 
suiting  a  keyboard  gesture  to  the  notes. 

Philip  beamed.    "That's  it,  and  that's  all !" 

It  gave  her  courage  to  venture  on.  "Those  three 
formidables,"  she  said,  "they  are  your  political " 

"  Key ! "  he  cried,  "  chords !  I  ask  no  one  to  tune  his 
politics  to  mine  if  he'll  only  tune  to  those." 

She  meditated.  She  knew  his  eyes  studied  her,  and 
when  she  looked  up  she  did  it  slowly,  giving  his  look 
time  to  grow  mild.  "That  would  be  beautiful,"  she 
said,  "if  the  whole  world  could  think  in  tune,  eh? — 
like  singing?" 

"Yes,"  he  murmured — and  this  was  the  farthest  into 
enchanted  ground  they  strolled  on  the  half-day's  jour 
ney — "yes,  but  no  two  need  wait  for  the  rest." 

57 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"  You  think  not  ? ' '  she  parried.  "  I  don't  know  much 
about  politics." 

The  words  had  hardly  fallen  when  he,  bending  to 
the  window,  exclaimed:  "Why,  if  this  isn't  Philadel 
phia!" 

So  ended  the  first  hour,  to  their  two  sidelong  listeners 
how  tardily,  to  themselves  how  much  too  soon !  Be 
yond  Philadelphia,  to  M.  Durel's  discomfort,  they 
dropped  The  Southern  Theorem  and  roamed  through  a 
whole  garden  of  lighter  topics — opera,  superstitions, 
chocolate-creams,  strikes,  "Hamlet,"  dog-shows,  aero 
planes,  purgatory,  whales,  votes  for  women,  whelks, 
and  the  judicial  settlement  of  international  disputes. 

Themes  were  nothing — the  one  point  was  to  converse. 
On  the  butterfly  wings  of  chit-chat,  round  about  each 
other  their  spirits  fluttered,  now  close  to  earth,  now  in 
the  clouds,  measuring  and  calculating — by  what  fairy 
triangulations  and  spectroscopy ! — the  stature,  breadth, 
weight,  and  substance  of  their  two  souls. 

To  Rosalie  the  experience  was  tingling  adventure.  In 
easy  tete-a-tete  with  the  only  man  she  had  ever  looked 
on  as  by  any  final  chance  a  welcome  suitor,  she  saw  in 
him,  through  her  father's  eyes,  a  "doctrinaire"  well  on 
his  way  to  become  a  political  outcast.  With  a  touch 
of  awe  she  perceived  that  he  was  but  just  painfully 
discovering  himself  to  be  an  advocate  of  the  ground 
principles,  at  least,  of  a  suppressed  political  party;  a 
party  long  held  to  earth  under  the  odium  of  its  old 
post-bellum  corruptions,  its  every  element  hobbled  by 
an  open  chicanery — of  Dixie's  own  white-handed  cham- 

58 


A  BRIEF  WAY  TOGETHER 

pions — which  disfranchised  millions  of  its  rank  and 
file,  good,  bad,  literate,  illiterate,  taxpayers  and  hand- 
to-mouth  poor,  whose  right  of  citizenship,  wisely  or 
unwisely,  was  written  in  the  national  constitution. 

Outwardly  arch,  she  was  inwardly  all  compassion. 
Why  should  he,  so  fitted  to  live  nobly  and  happily,  fret 
his  lone  soul  over  complacent  Dixie's  "cough" — his 
own  term — when,  as  he  admitted,  every  body  politic 
the  world  around  has  some  grave  symptom  or  bad 
habit,  yet  manages  to  stagger  along  through  political 
storm  and  night  from  one  dark  makeshift  to  another 
as  from  lamp-post  to  lamp-post?  Why  could  he  not 
adapt  to  his — and  her — beloved  Dixie  a  great  man's 
jest,  that  "God  takes  care  of  the  lame,  the  lazy,  and 
the  United  States "?  . 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  youth  must  meddle,  why 
should  she  mind  ?  These  were  probably  the  last  hours 
they  two  would  ever  spend  together.  "Hah !  politics ! " 
She  actually  wanted  to  revert  to  them;  not  for  long  ever 
again,  yet  long  enough  once  more  for  a  query  or  two 
on  plain  human  rights  as  he  saw  them,  or  might  be 
led  to  see  them  if  he  really  was  so  eager  for  truth  and 
justice.  But  when  she  would  have  led  he  held  back, 
and  as  he  did  so  the  car-windows  darkened.  "What ! " 
he  said,  "Baltimore  already?" 

It  was.  And  when  it  was  long  past  it  seemed  not 
far  behind  as  he  began,  while  chatting  on  in  his  school 
boy  way,  to  glance  across  the  fields  for  something  he 
would  not  name,  hoping  to  enjoy  her  surprise.  "  We'll 
be  on  a  long  curve,"  he  said,  "and — stop!  Isn't  this 

59 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

the  very  one?  .  .  .  No."  He  set  their  seats  abreast 
and  they  watched  the  sky-line  shoulder  to  shoulder. 
Now  he  glanced  over  his  chair-back:  "I  wish  you'd  see 
it,  too,  auntie — and  Mr.  Durel." 

Now  watching  again,  "Look!"  he  exclaimed  to  Ro 
salie,  "away  yonder!"  and  then  to  the  four  seniors: 
"There!" 

White  as  a  snow-peak — as  an  angel — the  apparition 
stood  against  the  noon  blue.  Rosalie  drew  a  sigh  of 
delight,  turned,  cried  to  father  and  grand'mere,  "The 
Capitol !"  and  turned  again  to  gaze. 

"Zion,  I  call  it,"  said  Philip,  and  when  two  strangers 
looked  over  two  magazines  he  added :  "  It  has  many  an 
inner  stain,  but  so  had  Zion,  hadn't  it,  auntie?" 

"Ah,  Phil!" 

"Well,"  he  boyishly  insisted,  gazing  at  the  vision, 
"to  my  mind  yonder's  the  holiest  hill  this  side  of  Zion, 
and  whoever  sins  against  it,  inside  it  or  outside  it,  sins 
as  straight  into  God's  face  as  a  man  can." 

"Mon  Dieu!"  wearily  murmured  the  banker,  with 
a  glance  at  madame. 

"Tisn't  quite  the  Divine  Providence,  is  it,  Phil?" 
the  judge  smilingly  asked. 

The  zealot  laughed :  "  Oh,  you !  you're  speaking  for 
auntie !  It's  mighty  near  it.  It's  the  National  Provi 
dence." 

"Well,"  Rosalie  sighed,  "the  national  providence  is 
vanished  round  the  turn." 

With  brushes  and  obeisances  the  porter  came,  and 
presently  the  voyagers  had  parted,  three  and  three, 

60 


A  BRIEF  WAY  TOGETHER 

In  a  well-filled  dining-car  the  two  magazine  readers 
sat  face  to  face  at  lunch.  One  talked  so  busily  that 
when  a  group  of  three  took  seats  at  his  back  he  kept 
straight  on  despite  his  companion's  covert  gestures  of 
warning. 

"Now,  I'm  not  saying  a  word  against  New  Orleans. 
The  way  that  city's  improved,  these  last  twenty  years 
— in  a  business  way — is  miraculous.  I  only  say  that 
for  a  New  Orleans  man  he's  queer.  But  it  makes  little 
odds  where  he  lives  or  is  going  to  live,  he's  booked  for 
all  the  trouble  he  can  take  care  of.  You  heard  him. 
'National  providence' — hunh !  maybe  I  sin  against  his 
national  providence — now  and  then — when  I  see  money 
in  it,  but  I  can  say  to  my  credit  that  I  never  yet  shot 
up  a  drawing-room  car  exclusively  with  my  mouth. 
He  ought  to  see  that  new  play,  'A  Fool  by  Choice/ 
don't  you  know  ?  " 

Later,  in  the  smoking-room:  "Oh,  of  course,  if  I'd 
known  his  back  was  right  against  name  /  wouldn't  have 
talked  so  much  with  my  mouth.  But  we  all  do  that 
one  time  or  another,  don't  you  know?" 

"That's  right,"  said  the  quieter  man. 


•1 


XII 
AND  AT  HOME  ON  DRESS  PARADE 

"HOME  again/'  said  Philip  as  the  Castletons  sat 
down  at  their  own  board  while  the  flowers  of  their  own 
garden,  tossing  their  perfumes  before  them,  climbed  in 
at  every  window.  The  words  were  more  comforting 
than  new. 

Possibly  Philip,  like  Socrates,  was  "too  great  to  care 
to  be  original."  And  so  may  have  been  Rosalie,  who 
that  same  day  in  Esplanade  Avenue  dropped  the  same 
remark. 

Said  the  judge  in  reply  to  Philip:  "All  the  way  com 
ing  into  the  city,  through  those  great  deforested  swamps 
that  they  are  turning  into  orange-groves " 

"  And  those  miles  of  new  streets  filling  up  with  costly 
new  dwellings/'  the  youth  interrupted. 

"Unenclosed/'  Miss  Castleton  smilingly  lamented. 

"And  some  of  which,"  suggested  Philip,  "are  convul 
sions  of  exotic  architecture." 

The  judge  smiled  in  turn.  "  Phil,  I'll  give  you  a  good 
rule  of  life:  Keep  your  rhetoric  for  compliments." 

"And  don't  superfluously  sass  your  own  town?" 

"That's  it.    It's  too  much  like " 

"Like  a  small  boy  kicking  his  nurse's  shins  ?  I  think 
so  myself.  Well,  you  say,  'all  the  way  coming  into  the 
city' — what?  Both  auntie  and  I  noticed  you  were 
thinking  hard." 


AND  AT  HOME  ON  DRESS  PARADE 

"Did  you?  I  was  thinking  of  the  day  I  came  back, 
paroled,  at  the  close  of  the  war.  New  Orleans  is  more 
than  twice  the  size  it  was  then.  She's  widened  to  the 
lake,  she's  lengthened  up  river  and  down,  she's  trans 
formed  her  harbor  with  docks,  elevators,  and  steam 
shipping 

"Couldn't  have  done  any  of  it  without  a  national 
providence,"  said  Philip  saucily. 

"Well,  the  fact  remains.  She's  risen  into  the  air 
and  drained  the  soil  underfoot  and  grown  down  into 
it.  We've  banished  Yellow  Jack  and  made  our  health 
rate  first-rate — or  nearly  so;  we  drink  filtered  water, 
we  can  all  speak  English,  and  living  below  Canal  Street 
no  longer  means  you're  Creole,  or  living  above  it  some 
thing  else." 

"I  wish  it  did,"  sighed  the  aunt,  pleasantly  enough. 
She  seemed  to  Philip  to  be  on  her  guard  against  men 
tion  of  the  Durels,  but  maybe  that  was  only  because 
he  longed  for  it.  Had  the  Durels,  madame,  for  in 
stance — Mile.  Ducatel,  as  she  once  had  been — anything 
to  do  with  that  old  war-time  home-coming  of  the  boy- 
lieutenant  now  the  gray  judge?  Philip  would  have 
liked  to  ask,  but  his  aunt  spoke  on: 

"Father,  let's  all  three  settle  now  whether  to  accept 
the  Smiths'  invitation  to  share  a  box  with  them  a  week 
from  to-night  at  the  French  Opera  House." 

"  Opera  ?    This  time  of  year  ?  " 

"No,  but  quite  as  important;  that  big  charity  con 
cert." 

The  debate  was  brief.  "I  know  what  auntie  thinks, 
63 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

judge.  She  thinks  we'd  like  to  go  whether  we  have 
to  or  not,  and  have  to  go  whether  we'd  like  to  or  not." 

And  so  they  went.  Fear  of  the  Durels  haunted  the 
lady,  but  one  couldn't  flee  one's  kind  for  fear  of  Durels. 
The  French  Opera  House,  once  the  New  Opera  House, 
throne-room  of  Creole  society  in  the  old  Creole  days, 
built  in  the  French  manner — boxes  all  around  and  from 
floor  to  ceiling — and  still  devoted  mainly  to  French 
opera,  was  down  in  the  heart  of  the  old  Creole  quarter, 
whence  the  Creoles,  as  residents,  have  so  largely  dis 
appeared.  The  night  was  very  warm;  but  a  merely 
warm  night  never  daunts  a  New  Orleans  audience;  the 
house  was  full.  Louisiana's  capital — which  can  quote 
Kipling  but  still  holds  to  Byron — Louisiana's  social 
capital,  like  Belgium's  ninety-nine  years  before,  had 
gathered  there  banks  and  borders  of  human  flowers 
and  heaped  them  from  floor  to  roof — the  lily  type  and 
the  rose  type,  the  latter  of  every  tint  of  pink,  white, 
and  red,  in  maidenly  first  bloom,  in  matronly  full 
bloom,  behind  a  perpetual  palpitation  of  fans  that  you 
might  have  mistaken  for  an  invasion  of  huinming-birds 
from  paradise. 

How  comfortable  it  was  for  the  exclusives  to  mark, 
without  remark,  the  absence  of  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry, 
and  to  exchange  merry  bows  across  the  fluttering  dis 
tances  with  such  social  lights  as  the  Browns,  Grays, 
Whites,  Blancs,  De  Blancs,  and  Le  Blancs!  The  or 
chestra  seats  were  as  well  filled  with  stockholders  as  on 
a  midwinter  opera  night,  and  central  among  them, 
animating  all  demonstrations,  shapely,  handsome,  still 

64 


AND  AT  HOME  ON  DRESS  PARADE 

youthful,  and  large  enough  every  way  except  when  he 
stood  up,  sat  Zephire  Durel. 

Save  for  one  darling  violinist,  whose  Italian  ardor, 
from  the  tip  of  his  bow  to  the  tip  of  his  toe,  set  the 
house  ablaze,  the  programme  was  wholly  of  song.  The 
city's  most  petted  native  vocalists  were  behind  the 
footlights.  Every  singer  sang  true  and  with  fervor — 
chaleur — ah!  what  is  song  without  chaleur?  Encores 
outnumbered  the  numbers,  bouquets  arched  and  fell 
like  Roman  candles  and  were  snatched  up  in  rapturous 
amazement  and  bewildered  gratitude  amid  renewed 
thunders  of  acclaim. 

Not  a  dry  eye  was  in  the  house — it  was  so  warm! 
Ladies  burst  their  gloves  and  displayed  the  ruin  with 
ecstasy.  Rosalie  showed  hers  to  'mere,  'mere  hers  to 
Rosalie,  where  they  sat,  with  monsieur  behind  them,  in 
a  box  opposite  the  Castletons'.  They  had  bowed  across 
cordially  before  the  performance  began.  To  be  social 
was  a  tradition  of  the  house,  and  to-night  it  was  social 
from  the  start.  In  the  programme's  mid-interval  men 
left  their  seats  by  flocks  to  visit  about,  the  stockholders, 
as  usual,  leading  the  movement,  M.  Durel  and  Zephire 
doing  their  part,  and  Philip  and  the  judge — though,  as 
it  chanced,  without  stock — doing  theirs.  They  two 
and  Zephire  entered  the  Durel  box  together. 

In  it  with  madame  and  Rosalie  were  a  young  ma 
tron,  her  husband  and  his  brother,  all  Creoles  of  high 
finish.  The  two  men  eagerly  discussed  with  madame 
and  the  judge  the  merits  of  the  various  performers. 
Their  encomiums  were  limited  only  by  their  efforts  to 

65 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

give  them  epigrammatic  form  in  two  languages.  The 
judge's  inability  to  back  their  claim  that  the  Creoles 
of  New  Orleans  were  the  best  patrons,  best  critics,  of 
music,  in  America,  brought  gloom  to  their  brows  and 
a  touch  of  fierceness  into  their  smiles  of  tolerance,  but 
twice  and  again  madame  spoke  the  perfect  word  of  re 
adjustment  at  the  perfect  moment,  and  mutual  defer 
ence  shone  again  as  double  as  the  poet's  swan  and 
shadow. 

With  Philip  and  Rosalie  it  was  different.  The  un 
bounded  praises  came  from  him.  From  her,  the  young 
matron,  and  Zephire  came  more  discriminative  com 
ments.  Their  criticisms,  however,  were  unsympa 
thetic,  and  hers,  in  particular,  were  so  self-evident  that 
Philip  found  himself  amusingly  beyond  his  depth,  as 
he  cheerfully  confessed.  Whereupon  Rosalie  diverted 
the  talk  to  history  and  pretty  soon  had  Zephire  boast 
ing  a  natal  gift  for  that  sort  of  intellectual  amusement, 
not  as  a  student,  "Ah,  non!"  and  "Hoh,  no!"  but  as 
a  collector  of  old  paintings,  rare  bindings,  choice  furni 
ture. 

"History,"  was  the  girl's  comment  to  Philip,  "is 
your  toil  and  Zephire's  toy,"  a  mot  which  the  young 
matron  regarded  as  capital  satire  and  Zephire  accepted 
as  a  well-deserved  compliment. 

Philip  noticed  something  out  of  the  common  in  the 
cashier.  One  sign  of  it  was  the  promptness  with  which 
Zephire  discerned,  and  showed  he  discerned,  Philip's 
and  Rosalie's  interest  in  each  other.  Even  a  hint  of 
commonness  in  his  bearing  was  exceptional  through 

66 


AND  AT  HOME  ON  DRESS  PARADE 

the  delicacy  of  the  hint — shoulders  held  the  faintest 
bit  above  an  honest  level,  with  elbows  hung  out  the 
faintest  bit  too  far;  the  faintest  bit  of  swagger  in  his 
somewhat  too  vibratory  neck  and  waist,  the  faintest 
bit  of  naughtiness  in  his  laugh,  yet  the  whole  combina 
tion  so  faintly  apparent  that  probably  no  relative  had 
ever  inferred  the  elements  of  character  it  implied — to 
him,  Philip.  To  a  second  cousin  Zephire's  most  in 
gratiating  trait  was  his  frequent  outspokenness.  In 
his  boastings  of  himself  he  was  almost  aggressive:  as 
inwardly  convinced  as  a  cardinal  and  as  frank  as  the 
charge  of  a  Spanish  bull. 

"Very  Latin,"  thought  Philip  about  the  time  that 
his  own  modesty  was  giving  Zephire  a  moral  sea-sick 
ness. 

What  a  crowded  ten  minutes!  It  was  hard  not  to 
have  as  much  as  one  of  the  ten  with  this  rare  maiden 
alone,  but  if  one  intruder  had  not  been  in  the  way 
some  other  would  have  been,  and  it  was  well  to  come 
up  with  this  one  right  here  where,  under  the  silken  veil 
of  casual  intercourse,  one  could  realize  the  hideousness 
of  what  might  be  impending  in  her  fate.  Suddenly,  on 
the  ninth  minute,  there  came  to  Philip  a  fierce  inner 
gladness  when  Zephire,  impelled  by  what  seemed  a 
definite  leading  from  Rosalie,  invited  him  to  call  at 
his  Orleans  Street  rooms  the  following  day. 

"But,  yes!"  insisted  the  bachelor,  "I  have  there 
many  things  to  astonizh  yo'  admiration !  Come  at 
five — six — at  yo'  pleasure.  Last  week  I've  bought  me, 
at  auction,  a  splendid  bookcase — carved — and  full  of 

67 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

books! — Louisianas — anj  two-three  scrap-books  of 
newspaper  clippings.  I  think  some  of  those  clippings 
are  projuce'  by  yo'  father." 

"Did  you,  too,  know  my  father?" 

"Ah,  I  was  not  of  the  age  for  him  to  know  me. 
You'll  come  to-morrow  and  have  a  glass  of  wine  with 


me?" 


"And  then/'  put  in  Rosalie,  "you'll  tell  Zephire  the 
price  to  ask  for  those  Louisianas ! "  She  addressed  her 
kinsman:  "Because  you,  of  course,  all  you  want  to  keep 
is  that  carved  bookcase,  and  maybe  those  scrap-books 
—to  light  fires!" 

Other  callers  already  pressing  in  obscured  Zephire's 
reply  and  the  two  Castletons  withdrew.  As  they  went 
Philip  told  his  few  minutes'  experience. 

"  To-morrow  ?  "  said  the  judge.  "  Yes,  go.  But  not 
Friday." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Friday?    A  hanging?" 

"Madame  Durel  wants  auntie  and  us  to  a  cup  of 
tea." 

"Friday?  Let's  see,"  Philip  guiltily  said.  "Yes,  I 
reckon  I  can  arrange  for  it." 

Neither  spoke  again  till  they  were  at  their  own  box, 
when  Philip  asked:  "Do  you  think  auntie  will  go?" 

"I,  eh—"  the  judge  replied,  "I  think  we'd  best  be 
together  when  we  mention  it  to  her." 


XIII 

"THE  FOE!" 

WHEN  the  next  day's  bank  hours  were  done  and  M. 
Durel  stepped  into  his  automobile  he  felt  no  grateful 
relaxation.  Unseen,  his  chief  perplexity  rode  home 
with  him,  passed  with  him  through  gate  and  door  and 
all  the  appointments  of  a  refined  life. 

The  air  was  oppressively  warm.  He  went  up-stairs, 
put  on  fresh  linen,  and  came  down  again,  but  the  per 
plexity  clung.  When  he  asked  for  madame  and 
mademoiselle  he  was  told  they  were  out  with  a  cousin, 
making  calls.  Finally,  on  a  side  veranda  jutting  into 
the  garden  he  sat  down  with  his  trouble  and  squarely 
faced  it. 

After  all,  it  was  only  this:  Zephire,  in  the  bank,  had 
mentioned  the  concert  and  the  two  Castletons*  visit  to 
the  Durel  box.  He  had  barely  alluded  to  them,  but 
the  allusion's  bareness  was  what  signified.  Zephire 
saw.  Zephire  knew:  Zephire,  and  hence  others,  no 
doubt  many.  Monsieur  was  not  ready  for  either  Ze 
phire  or  others  to  see  or  know.  He  could  not  be  ready 
until  he  could  make  out  what  to  do  with  the  Castletons, 
and  he  had  not  made  out,  not  even  as  to  the  aunt. 

More  than  the  world  beside,  Alphonse  Durel  prized 
the  two  queens  of  his  home.  Rosalie  first,  with  life 
all  before  her,  and  then,  second  only  on  a  scale  too  fine 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

for  degrees,  his  mother.  Closely  next  these  he  cher 
ished  the  Durel  name  at  large.  But  to  serve  best  his 
mother,  his  daughter,  or  the  name  at  large  did  not 
rigidly  demand  that  he  should  serve  their  wishes,  as 
to  matters  in  general  or  the  Castletons  in  particular. 
Not  at  all  I 

Miss  Castleton !  For  reasons  peculiarly  his,  reasons 
twenty-odd  years  old,  his  keenest  impulse  was  to 
thwart  her  wishes  whatever  they  might  be,  and  whether 
in  conflict  with  those  of  her  nephew  and  her  father  or 
not.  For  more  than  twenty  years,  at  every  chance  re 
minder  of  her,  two  words  had  answered  from  the  depth 
of  his  heart:  "Never  again !"  Never  again  should  that 
spinster's  will  override  his.  He  had  never  foreseen  a 
day  when  her  wish  and  his  might  coincide.  But  now, 
here  was  the  first  rub.  Could  he  thwart  her  now 
without  thwarting  himself  ?  Except  only  the  crowning 
question  of  his  daughter's  future,  no  part  of  the  whole 
perplexity  harried  him  more  than  this.  He  apologized 
to  himself  for  it:  "I  am  ill  yet.  I  am  no  more  rested 
than  I  was  in  that  restless  North,  on  that  Boardwalk, 
when  these  Castletons  were  under  my  nose." 

His  mind  turned  indulgently  upon  the  placid  judge, 
and  the  change  gave  him  ease.  What  a  droll  new  jux 
taposition  had  at  this  absurdly  late  day  come  round 
between  that  old  man,  madame,  and  him !  He  fancied 
the  old  gentleman  beset  by  thoughts  of  what  might 
have  been  as  to  the  three,  not  unlike  those  which  he, 
Durel,  had  at  times  of  himself  and  Philip.  Fantastical 
old  fellow!  If  he  could  imagine  he  had,  at  this  late 

70 


"THE  FOE!" 

day,  a  case  of  his  own,  let  him  have  that  much  com 
fort.  But  Philip's  case  was  another  matter,  a  thing 
that  dinned  unendurably  in  monsieur's  brain.  For 
Philip's  case  was  also  Rosalie's. 

Her  father  had  no  yearning  to  see  her  married  to 
Zephire,  but  only  to  see  her  married.  To  his  mind 
spinsterhood  was  deformity — an  eye  knocked  out,  a 
twisted  spine.  Yet  to  give  her  to  the  like  of  Philip 
Castleton  seemed  worse  than  to  see  her  one-eyed, 
spine-twisted,  and  a  spinster.  He  would  withhold  her 
not  for  the  differences  that  commonly  kept  Creoles 
and  "Americans"  apart,  nor  for  any  matter  of  wealth, 
station,  health,  or  character,  nor  yet  for  any  lack  of  be 
lief  by  him  in  marrying  for  love.  He  believed  in  it ! 
His  own  marriage,  made  heartbrokenly  and  purely  for 
his  clan's  sake,  yet  rewarded  with  a  tranquil  life  and 
this  priceless  Rosalie,  was  no  more  proof  against  his 
belief  than  Judge  Castleton's  against  his,  or  Philip's 
long-departed  mother's  against  hers.  No,  no !  not  he ! 
He  advocated  marrying  for  love  and  would  never  cross 
lovers  but  for  sternest  cause. 

Then  what  here  was  the  prohibitory  trouble — re 
ligion?  Assuredly  not.  No,  Miss  Castleton,  never 
again  religion  !  No,  flatly,  nothing  but  politics !  Ah, 
yet  not  politics  as  they  are  regarded  elsewhere  in  the 
world,  but  as  they  are  in  Dixie,  in  Louisiana,  where  the 
ever-blazing  under-issue  is  honor,  decency,  morals, 
safety,  and  happiness,  personal  and  communal,  or  their 
absolute  opposites,  and  where  one  party  has  to  hold 
the  other  down  by  whatever  shift  it  can,  and  by  the 

71 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

neck.  It  was  not  thinkable  that  Rosalie  Durel,  after 
love's  first  illusion,  could  live  happily,  live  at  all,  with 
a  man — man,  woman,  or  angel — holding — and  teaching 
— such  theories  of  society — for  Louisiana,  for  New  Or 
leans.  Zephire,  with  all  his  vanities  and  peccadilloes, 
was  a  better,  safer  alternative. 

But  here  came  the  pinch  again:  Philip,  whose  aunt 
poured  out  on  him  all  the  passion  that  might  have  been 
a  mother's,  was  the  living  monument  of  a  wrong  done 
him,  Durel,  a  triumph  over  him,  which  even  with  Ro 
salie  for  his  illimitable  compensation  he  would  be 
ashamed  ever  to  be  able  to  forgive.  How  could  he 
yield  Rosalie  to  him  ?  Yet  to  hold  him  and  her  apart, 
whose  mutual  fitness  was  plain  to  the  most  casual  eye, 
would  be  not  merely  to  let  the  same  hand  dash  from 
his  own  child's  lips  the  same  cup  of  love — of  life — it 
had  struck  from  his;  it  would  be  to  make  himself,  Al- 
phonse  Durel,  the  executant,  the  sheriff,  of  the  spinster 
aunt's  unspoken  but  manifest  decree.  Thus  he  would 
throw  away  his  one,  first,  last  chance  of — the  word  was 
none  too  big — revenge;  his  long-coveted  chance  to  give 
that  woman  her  one  all-inclusive,  irreparable  over 
throw.  Yet  again — ah,  the  tangle ! — why  let  that  loss 
count  if  the  decree  were  as  much  and  as  passionately 
his  as  hers?  It  need  not.  He  was  not  fantastical,  nor 
weak,  nor  ill,  but  merely — tired ! 

His  mind,  as  if  it  scaled  a  cliff,  stopped  to  rest. 
How  noisy  to-day  those  passing  street-cars !  But  tfeey 
gave  him  an  impulse.  Five  minutes  in  one  of  tfeem 
would  take  him  within  a  square  of  Zephire's  rooms. 

72 


"THE  FOE!" 

Zephire's  babble  might  prove  refreshing,  a  sort  of 
spiritual  soft  drink.  He  rose,  took  his  hat,  and  left 
the  house. 

A  car  on  another  and  remote  line,  from  up-town,  had 
already  dropped  a  passenger  in  old  Orleans  Street,  who, 
tapping  at  the  sidewalk  door  of  a  dingy  two-story 
stuccoed  brick  house,  was  let  into  a  damp  hall  by  a 
very  fat  and  slatternly  barefoot  negro  woman.  She 
did  not  take  the  card  which,  if  one  could  read,  would 
have  identified  him  as  a  Mr.  Philip  Castleton. 

Mr.  Zephire  Durel?  Yes,  he  was  in,  up  those 
stairs.  His  rooms  were  just  at  the  landing. 

One  door  had  a  dainty  knocker,  which  Philip  tapped. 
Inside  a  feminine  laugh  came  just  on  the  tap,  but  the 
door  opened  and  Zephire  cut  short  his  own  gay  talk  to 
say: 

"Mr.  Cazzleton,  expected  and  welcome.  Ah,  yes, 
enter!  We  was  engage'  in  a  little  business  but  'tis 
finizhed.  .  .  .  Madame  Philomele,  if  you'll  permit  me 
— to  present  you  Pro-fessor  Cazzleton,  Tulane  Univer 
sity!" 

The  deference  in  Philip's  bow  accorded  her  the  bene 
fit  of  all  doubts.  He  stepped  in. 
s  Mme.  Philomele  had  but  one  gilded  foot  on  the 
floor.  The  other  hung  from  a  table,  but  it  did  him 
the  honor  to  drop  to  its  fellow  as  she  bowed.  For  a 
woman  in  her  fifties  she  had  kept  her  weight  down 
well.  A  capital  dressmaker  had  decked  her  in  a  har 
mony  of  pinks  and  greens  whose  high  pitch  was  clearly 
the  wearer's  choice.  This  fact  was  shown  by  her  ex- 

73 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

cesses  in  jewelry  and  by  her  cheeks  and  yellow  hair 
touched  up  to  the  same  key  in  autumn  tints.  About 
her  lips  and  nostrils  were  signs  of  rude  experiences,  and 
subtler  ones  of  defiance  in  the  eyes. 

Said  Zephire  to  Philip,  while  bending  suavely  to 
Mme.  Philomele:  "That's  a  very  seldom  that  two  gen 
tlemen,  or  even  one,  meet  madame  anywhere  not  in 
her  parlor  of  consultation.  Mr.  Cazzleton,  tha'z  a 
flattery  to  you  an'  me,  yes!  Same  time" — addressing 
both — "we  are  well  met  together,  all  three,  because, 
look !  Are  we  not  those  three  Fates  ?  Past,  Present, 
Future !  Historian,  man  of  business,  clairvoyante ! " 

Mme.  Philomele  bent  with  professional  dignity  to 
Philip  and  smiled  to  Zephire. 

Philip  responded:  "Mr.  Durel  has  invited  me " 

"I  know,"  said  the  clairvoyante.  Comrade-like  she 
gave  a  parting  hand  to  Zephire.  "Adieu." 

The  cashier  retained  her  finger-tips,  well  lifted,  and 
led  her  to  the  stair-landing.  There,  while  Philip  stayed 
by  the  treasures  of  the  newly  bought  bookcase,  she 
murmured  her  thanks  to  Zephire  for  some  favor  granted, 
let  him  kiss  her  fingers,  and  glided  down  and  out. 

Zephire  returned  to  Philip  with  a  roguish  smile, 
but  his  visitor,  holding  books  in  both  hands,  spoke 
first: 

"You  know  Ovide  Landry's  book-shop,  don't  you, 
round  here  in  Chartres  Street  ?  " 

"  Ovide !  Born  the  body-servant  of  grand 'mere 
Durel.  But — have  a  chair  and—  On  the  table 
stood  a  decanter  and  two  filled  glasses.  The  host  drew 

74 


"THE  FOE!" 

them  near  and  the  pair  sat  down.  "You'll  have  the 
honor  of  the  glass  declined  by  Madame  Philom£le !" 

Philip  tried  to  resume.  "Your  Louisianas — "  he 
began. 

But  Zephire,  with  his  confidential  smile,  the  jerk  of 
a  thumb  over  his  shoulder,  and  a  slow  shake  of  the 
head,  spoke  on:  "She,  she  don't  count — to  me — any 
mo' — since  long  time — about  a  year.  You  know,  Mr. 
Cazzleton,  this  world  is  comprise'  of  two." 

"At  the  lowest  count,"  Philip  most  willingly  agreed. 

"Yes,"  said  Zephire,  "the  wild  world  and  the  tame. 
She,  Philomele,  she's  of  the  wild,  eh?  You — except 
now  and  then  a  little  step  one  side  on  the  sly — you  are 
of  the  tame.  But  for  Zephire  Durel,  man  of  the  pres 
ent,  by  necessity  he  is  of  both !  I  tell  you  that  flat- 
foot'.  When  a  man  is  not  ashamed  of  neither — he's 
about  all  right,  eh?" 

Philip  laughed,  said  he  wished  being  all  right  was 
that  easy,  and  tried  to  revert  to  Ovide. 

"Ah,"  said  Zephire,  "I  know  them  all,  those  book 
shop  men.  What  I  don't  know  is  what  to  ask  for  those 
books !  If  by  an'  by  you'll  pass  yonder  with  me " 

"Let's  go  at  once." 

"No,  no.  Hold  the  horse'!  Finish,  any'ow,  yo' 
sherry.  That's  no  American  wine,  sir.  That's  im 
ported  by  Zephire  himself,  from  his  Spanish  relation' 
in  Andalusia.  And,  beside',  you  have  not  inspected 
my  furnit-ure,  neither  my  coll-ection  of  duelling  weap 
ons.  Hah!  and  neither  those  scrap-book'!" 

Wine-glasses  in  hand,  they  rose.  Daintily  bitter, 
75 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

smooth  as  an  oil,  was  the  wine  which  Philip  sipped  and 
complimented  while  being  led  about  and  taught  the 
points  of  excellence  and  rarity  in  chairs,  tables,  cabi 
nets,  bindings.  In  one  of  the  scrap-books  he  was 
shown  a  clipping  over  his  father's  name.  Zephire 
glanced  across  the  reader's  arm.  "Hoh!"  he  gayly 
said,  "that  foolishness!  Pass  it!  Even  a  gigantic 
mistake  don't  constitute  a  man  a  damn'  fool,  and  I 
su'pose  yoj  father,  if  he  was  to-day  here,  he'd  be  as 
much  ash-amed  of  it  as  you." 

Philip  turned  in  blazing  resentment  and  stood  chok 
ing  with  the  realization  that  he  was  a  guest.  But  then 
his  eyes  returned  to  the  page  and,  more  as  if  reading 
than  conversing,  he  said:  "I  am  proud  of  my  father 
both  for  writing  this  and  for  a  life  without  a  stain." 

"My  dear  sir!"  cried  Zephire,  "I  was  but  joking! 
Joking,  my  dear  sir !  And  even  though  a  joke,  I  take 
that  back.  I'm  sorry,  eh  ?  Yo'  pardon,  sir ! " 

"Well"— Philip  uncomfortably  laughed— "I'm  as 
sorry  on  my  side.  Little  pot,  soon  hot — I  wish  that 
didn't  fit  me  quite  so  snug."  He  rubbed  his  head  and 
shook  it  ruefully.  The  joke  still  seemed  to  him  more 
craft  than  humor,  yet  he  laughed  again.  "Let's  walk 
round  to  Landry's." 

"Walk?  We  cannot  walk  there  and  carry  those 
books!" 

"Leave  them.  I  can  tell  him  every  book  you've 
got." 

So  presently  Zephire,  from  behind  an  armoire  door, 
changing  his  coat,  called:  "And  same  time,  I  am  sure 

76 


"THE  FOE!" 

you — you  don't  believe  some  of  those  things  what  your 
father  says  in  there." 

"What  things,  for  instance?"  Philip  inquired  with 
lingering  heat,  while  the  stair-door,  old  and  dry,  noise 
lessly  swung  open  of  itself. 

"Well/'  the  answer  came,  "where  yo'  father  re 
marks  against  those  Kuklux,  those  lynching,  and  so 
forth.  Biccause  now,  sinze  long  time,  everybody's  find 
out  those  things  was  highly  patrio-tique  and  all  for  the 
best  for  the  South  and  for  that — that  union,  eh  ?  " 

"Then  I'm  nobody,  Mr.  Durel,"  Philip  replied,  "I've 
stopped  trying  to  believe  that." 

"Ah,  but  even  those  Yankees,  thousands  of  them," 
insisted  Zephire,  busy  with  a  fresh  collar  and  tie,  "  they 
believe  that;  even  Union  veterans." 

"Yes,  and  when  I  hear  a  Union  veteran  say  he  sup 
poses  they'd  do  the  same  in  our  place  I'm  as  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  him  as  of  the  Kuklux  Klan."  With  his 
back  to  the  open  door  Philip  was  glancing  over  the 
shelved  books  without  really  seeing  one  of  them  and 
without  noting  the  faint  tread  of  a  weary  man,  who 
came  up  the  stair  and  stood  on  the  threshold,  courte 
ously  facing  aside. 

Philip  turned  and  beheld  the  father  of  Rosalie. 
Angered  anew,  he  went  on  to  say  what  the  instant  be 
fore  he  had  decided  to  hold  back:  "I  believe  that  all 
overriding  of  law  by  violence  is  a  criminal  and  infa 
mous  attack  on  public  safety,  honor,  and  liberty." 

Too  late  he  remembered  again  that  he  was  a  visitor, 
and  once  more  blushed.  The  two  men  saluted. 

77 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Same  time/'  remarked  the  bank  president,  with 
courtly  good  nature,  "you  propose  to  con-tinue  living 
here;  thiz  city,  thiz  State,  and  to  go  abbout  in  soci'tie !" 

"Why,"  Philip  replied,  with  a  look  of  drollery  to 
both  his  hearers  as  the  three  came  together,  "yes ! 
Yes,  if  I  can  without  lockjaw.  Honestly" — to  Ze- 
phire — "my  mouth  isn't  as  big  as  your  door,  but  in 
one  way  it's  like  it;  it  will  now  and  then  swing  open." 

"Ah,"  said  the  senior  Durel  indulgently,  "for  ven 
tilation!" 

"Of  those  opinions,  ha,  ha!"  added  his  cashier  in 
delighted  explanation,  and  the  two  juniors  had  a 
merry  moment  between  them,  of  a  sort. 

The  three  went  to  the  book-shop  together.  Ovide 
purchased  the  books,  Philip  the  two  or  three  scrap- 
books. 

"The  books?  To  see  them?"  Ovide,  at  his  street- 
door,  shook  his  head.  "I  'ave  no  need.  I  'ave  make 
that  coll-ection,  myself,  an'  posses'  it  many  year'. 
Likewise  those  scrap-book'.  Yes,  n»e,  I  make  those." 
To  Philip  he  replied:  "If  they  can  be  jent  here?  Cer- 
tainlie,  with  those  book'.  You  can  ged  them  from 
here  when  yo&  like." 

"And  then,"  said  Zephire  to  Philip,  with  a  gesture 
of  congratulation,  to  show  him  how  easily  he  saw 
through  him,  "you  can  see  Ovide  again  and  alone !" 

"He's  a  human  document,"  said  Philip,  foolishly 
willing  to  be  transparent.  Yet  he  would  rather  not 
have  left  Zephire  alone  with  Rosalie's  father,  as  he 
had  to  do.  He  and  the  two  Durels  went  opposite  ways. 

78 


XIV 

"THEY  COME!    THEY  COME!" 

THAT  is  to  say,  they  came,  the  Castletons  that  Fri 
day  afternoon,  to  that  cup  of  tea,  so  called. 

Tea  there  was  none,  nor  yet  coffee,  but  most  delicate 
cakes  and  ices  and  that  pre-eminent  Creole  cordial 
they  call  "parfait  amour."  Afternoon  tea  was  a  cus 
tom  practised  by  the  leading  hotels — St.  Charles, 
Grunewald.  Ladies  of  the  city,  in  season,  daily  met 
and  sipped  there.  But  even  with  ices  instead  of  tea 
the  rite  was  far  from  prevalent  in  New  Orleans  homes. 
Men  of  the  business  centres,  in  any  case,  rarely  took 
part.  Ladies'-day  luncheons  at  the  Pickwick  Club 
they  enjoyed,  but  they  could  not  lift  the  "curate's  de 
light"  across  the  private  lawn.  Yet  monsieur  was 
present  with  mother  and  daughter  in  Esplanade  Avenue 
when  the  Castletons  came. 

They  came,  they  came.  We  say  it  thus  for  two 
reasons.  First,  Miss  Castleton  had  to  be  dragged  to 
the  encounter,  and  secondly,  within  a  fortnight  the  call 
was  returned !  Monsieur  had  no  zest  for  the  enter 
prise,  yet  he  found  time  to  accompany  madame  and 
mademoiselle,  as  ballast,  they  seeming  so  top-heavily 
willing  to  go.  Moreover,  it  was  not  for  such  a  Creole 
as  he  to  let  a  social  debt,  trans-Canal  Street  debt,  go 
to  protest.  Motoring  up  that  way  with  his  ladies,  he 

79 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

had  a  dark  presentiment  that  the  two  male  Americans 
would  be  present  with  the  other,  the  neuter,  the  spin 
ster.  And  so  they  were.  But  also,  grateful  mitiga 
tion,  there  were  three  or  four  other  callers,  ladies,  up 
town  Creoles.  The  lively  cross-fire  of  two  languages 
was  as  melodious  to  the  heart  as  to  the  ear  of  Philip 
and  the  judge. 

To  Philip  and  Rosalie  both  meetings  afforded  much 
entertainment — flashes  of  gayety,  glimmerings  of  ten 
derness.  They  were  more  than  meetings;  in  a  gentle 
way  they  were  collisions;  clashings  of  theories,  tradi 
tions,  and  characters  which  were  to  one  another  as 
square  and  round  pegs  to  round  and  square  holes,  yet 
every  clash  ended  in  a  victory  of  sweet  manners.  At 
one  juncture,  transiently,  manners  themselves  became 
a  topic. 

This  was  when  Rosalie  asked  Philip  for  an  account 
of  his  call  on  Zephire,  of  which  she  had  heard  through 
her  father.  Philip,  in  his  very  brief  report  of  it,  too 
brief  to  require  any  mention  of  the  clairvoyante,  de 
clared  that  Zephire,  whenever  conversation  turned 
upon  grave  matters,  was  easily  his  superior  in  courtesy. 

"  Ah ! "  cried  the  girl,  "  superior,  Zephire !  Yet,  still, 
yes !  And  superior  with  me  the  same.  Many  times  I 
have  found  that  with  Zephire." 

Philip's  demurrer  was  vain.  "I  rather  not  be  the 
superior  of  Zephire  that  way.  You  know,  Mr.  Cas- 
tleton — you  don't  think  politeness  is  sometimes  a 
fault?"  She  turned  to  one  of  her  up-town  fellows:  "I 
think  anyhow  in  us  Creoles  it  is." 

80 


"THEY  COME!    THEY  COME!" 

"It  certainly  isn't  in  us  Americans,"  Philip  replied. 
"We  care  nine  times  as  much  for  good  nature  as  for 
good  manners.  You  Creoles  know  that." 

"Ah !"  she  broke  out  merrily,  "and  we  care  fifty-nine 
times  as  much  for  good  manners  as  for  good  nature. 
Not  all  those  Creoles,  but — "  She  waved  despairingly. 

Philip  could  not  echo  the  criticism,  yet,  spoken  by 
a  Creole,  two  Creoles,  such  Creoles,  he  could  not  pre 
sume  to  contest  it.  He  tried  to  state  both  facts  but 
did  it  so  ungracefully  that  the  pair  grew  mirthful  and 
Rosalie  declared  his  "politeness"  superior  to  Zephire's 
best.  "Because  this  time  awkwardness  gives  it  per 
fection!" 

Dropping  personalities,  she  had  a  further  idea,  but 
could  not  phrase  it  till  he  found  her  the  words,  which 
he  furnished  as  they  left  the  rest  of  the  company  on  a 
low  veranda  overlooking  the  side  lawn  and  strolled 
out  upon  the  sod.  The  idea  was  that  good  manners 
were  comparatively  easy  to  those  who  value  feelings 
more  than  facts. 

He  was  flattered.  "And  it's  just  when  I  meet  that 
sort,"  he  said,  "that  my  manners  break  down;  when 
most  needed." 

"As  when  discussing  history,  for  example,"  she  sug 
gested,  "or  politics?" 

"Oh,  politics,  no!  My  manners  don't  break  down 
in  politics,  they  blow  up !  For  it's  there  we  meet  those 
who  rate  passion  more  sacred  than  law,  as  somebody 
says." 

"Same  time,  that's  when  you  are  most  to  be  excused, 
81 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Because  in  history,  in  politics,  you  put  your  whole 
heart,  h'mm?" 

"No,  there's  only  where  I  ought  to  put  it." 

They  smiled  as  though  nothing  had  happened,  and 
he  hurried  to  cover  the  slip:  "No,  that  shouldn't  ex 
cuse  me  or  any  one.  I  don't  count  anybody  quite  fit 
— I  know  I'm  not — to  talk  politics  till  he's  got  the 
good  manners — as  I  haven't — to  be  patient  with  bad 
politics  as  well  as  with  bad  manners."  He  paused  and 
smiled :  "  Mademoiselle ' ' 

Her  quiet  step  ceased;  her  gaze  rested  serenely  in 
his.  They  stood  at  the  edge  of  a  sward  unevenly 
rimmed  by  flowering  bushes  among  which  she,  in  sum 
mer  draperies,  fitted  with  climacteric  perfection  and 
made  Philip  long  to  say  that  nowhere  else  in  open 
daylight  is  maidenhood  so  lovely  as  in  a  garden.  But 
all  the  more,  he  thought  to  himself,  he  should  be  im 
personal.  Nevertheless,  before  his  childishly  blunt  re 
mark  was  half  out  it  seemed  to  him  a  personality  most 
flagrant. 

"I  wonder  if  you  believe  in — in  votes  for  women!" 

Her  unruffled  poise  enhanced  her  beauty.  "Yes?" 
she  asked.  "And  I  wonder  if  you  do." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  do  believe,"  he  replied. 

She  brightened.   "Yes?  Well?"  They  walked  again. 

"Voting  or  no  voting,  I  believe  in  the  same  political 
freedom  between  man  and  woman  as  between  man 
and  man." 

"Ah,  that's  good.    I  believe  that,  yes." 

"  I  think  politics  and  political  freedom  can  be  set  on 
82 


"THEY  COME!    THEY  COME!" 

so  high  a  plane  by  the  individual  voter,  man  or  woman, 
that  even  man  and  wife  can  differ  politically  as  widely 
as  man  and  man  and  yet  be  as  beautifully  mated  as 
they've  ever  been  since  marriage  began." 

The  moment  the  word  was  uttered  the  speaker 
wanted  it  back.  It  might  be  true  but  it  was  not  fair. 
No  Creole  father  was  needed  to  tell  him  that.  It  was 
a  shot  out  of  ambush,  aimed  at  the  maiden,  and  as  it 
rang  back  into  his  own  ears  he  knew  that,  for  all  her 
outward  calm,  it  had  sent  the  same  thrill  of  recognition 
into  her  heart  as  into  his  and  that  she  saw  in  it  as 
plainly  as  he  a  move  to  try  love's  cause — as  his  grand 
father  might  have  said — by  John  Doe  proceedings. 

Her  abstracted  response  made  him  more  grateful 
than  ever.  "That's  very  unfortunate,"  she  said,  "a 
man  and  wife  to  have  different  politics." 

"Doesn't  that  depend  on  the  man  and  wife?"  he 
asked. 

She  mused  on:  "It's  good  that  it  seldom  happens." 

"Good  manners  and  good  nature  having  their  lim 
its,"  suggested  Philip. 

"Yet  at  same  time,"  she  admitted,  "I  think  any 
man  and  wife  are  sure  to  quarrel  about  something  if — 
if  they " 

"Can  just  consent  to  quarrel!"  he  prompted,  and 
the  two  so  enjoyed  their  unanimity  that  Philip  felt  al 
most  absolved.  He  would  go  early  to  her  father,  he 
thought,  and  speak  straight  to  the  point,  Creole  fashion. 

Her  next  word  uplifted  him  yet  more.  It  was  not  a 
time  of  year  for  much  calling,  and  on  the  veranda  were 

83 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

no  newcomers  to  make  the  first  restive.  Miss  Castle- 
ton  was  trying  to  catch  her  father's  eye,  but  it  would 
not  be  caught.  The  garden  pair  took  seats  on  a  bench 
among  the  myrtles,  and  Rosalie  said: 

"Explain  me  that  difficulty  of  your  politics." 

The  happy  youth  laughed.  "If  I  tell  you,"  he  said, 
"do  you  promise  not  to  call  me  a  political  prig?" 

"Ah,  what  is  that?    I  don't  know." 

"A  political  prig  is  a  doctrinaire,  a  dunce,  a  hypo 
crite,  and  a  coward,  all  in  one,  and  my  chief  difficulty 
— oh,  it's  nothing  great,  it's  men  calling  me  by  that 
name.  In  their  minds,  I  mean,  and  with  their  eyes — 
and  their  good  manners."  He  frowned,  but  then 
smiled. 

"That's  fortunate  'tis  not  with  the  tongue,"  she 
said. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "hot  tongues  are  better  than 
cold  civility,  as  somebody  says." 

"But  explain  to  me  what  are  the  principles  of  your 
politics,"  insisted  the  girl  as  she  rose  from  the  bench. 
The  veranda  company  were  on  their  feet,  and  she  and 
Philip  loitered  toward  them  while  he  replied: 

"You  read  the  New  Testament  sometimes,  don't 
you?" 

"Assuredly." 

"Well,  you'll  find  all  my  political  principles  there." 

With  no  reflection  of  his  light  manner  she  stopped 
short.  "Ah-h!  and  you  say  that?  To  men?  To 
men  like  Zephire?  Ah,  well,  then — !  Well,  of  course, 

then 1" 

84 


"THEY  COME!    THEY  COME!" 

"Then  what?"  They  stood  eye  to  eye.  Her  tone 
of  sweet  reasoning  was  like  a  voice  from  heaven. 

"Ah,  I  think  you'll  find  it  very  difficult,  even  you, 
to  say  that  and  not  be — that  thing." 

He  barely  let  her  finish.  "  I  know  it  I "  he  cried,  so 
earnestly  that  his  aunt  and  the  banker,  from  the 
veranda,  looked  across.  He  forced  a  new  gayety. 
"  You're  right !  I  know  it  by  experience."  The  gayety 
failed  again,  and  most  unpardonably  forgetting  that 
they  were  in  his  garden,  not  hers,  he  continued:  "Your 
word's  a  hard  one,  but  I  thank  you.  I  bless  you." 
The  pained  rebuke  that  came  into  her  face  only  fired 
him  with  a  fiercer  desperation  and  he  blundered  on: 
""I  love  you.  I  want  you — for  life.  I'll  be  your  hero, 
iio  meaner  thing.  With  you  at  my  side  I  can  do  it,  I 
can  be  it — against  all  odds,  within  or  without." 

They  gazed  a  moment  more,  he  reddened  to  the  tem 
ples,  and  they  loitered  on.  There  was  a  ray  of  hope 
in  the  slowness  of  her  footsteps,  but  presently,  with 
eyes  dropped,  she  said:  "No  ...  No  ...  There  is 
too  much  dividing  us." 

"Surely  you  don't  mean  politics?" 

"Yes . . .    Yes . . .    Politics — yet  not  politics  alone." 

"I  believe  we  were  made  for  each  other." 

"No  ...  No  ...  I  think  we  don't  belong." 
They  joined  the  company. 

"Quite  so,"  said  Miss  Castleton's  physician  next 
morning;  f'what  you  need  is  not  treatment,  it's  moun 
tains," 

85 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Doctor,  I've  stayed  here  through  three  successive 
summers  without  so  much  as  a  pill." 

"That's  it.  Only  Creoles  can  do  that  and  keep 
strong." 

"I" — she  sweetly  shook  her  head — "I  can't  go.  All 
the  mountains  of  Virginia  won't  revive  me  if  I  leave 
Philip  behind — or  the  judge  either.  Phil,  will  you  go  ? 
Father,  will  you?" 


86 


XV 

AT  BILOXI 

JCTNE,  July,  August,  half  of  September,  the  whole 
long,  shimmering,  burdensome,  bountiful  summer 
dragged  by  without  a  further  word  between  any  Cas- 
tleton  and  any  Durel. 

The  world  war  had  broken  out,  all  Belgium  and  the 
north  of  France  were  burning.  The  Castletons  had 
gone,  early  and  far,  into  the  highest  Alleghanies.  In 
an  ordinary  case  one  might  suppose  that  one's  aunt 
might  find  reinvigoration  there  without  a  double  male 
companionship;  but  when  such  an  aunt  has  brought 
one  up  in  the  bonds  of  rectitude  and  gratitude  one  will 
hardly  choose  to  employ  one's  supposing  powers  with 
an  unfilial  stubbornness. 

Even  rectitude  and  gratitude  aside,  Philip  might 
have  gone  tamely,  if  not  willingly.  For  within  a  few 
days  after  that  amazing  mistake,  for  which  he  could 
not  for  a  moment,  night  or  day,  forgive  himself,  the 
Durels,  on  Rosalie's  own  prompting,  had  fled  to  Biloxi, 
eastward  on  the  Gulf  shore  a  two  and  a  half  hours'  rail 
way  run,  but  in  the  spiritual  facts  of  the  case  stellar 
intervals  away. 

In  Biloxi  Philip,  the  historian,  could  have  told  us, 
were  born  the  first  Creoles  of  Louisiana,  among  them  a 
Ducatel  or  two  and  at  least  as  many  Durels.  It  is 

87 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Louisiana's  own  birthplace.  New  Orleans  is  Biloxi's 
daughter,  nearly  twenty  years  her  junior.  On  one  of 
the  low  bluffs  at  the  edge  of  her  white  sand  beach 
stood  the  Durels'  wide-verandaed  summer  cottage  in 
the  shade  of  live-oaks  and  evergreen  magnolias,  over- 
towered  by  a  few  great  pines,  relics  of  the  original 
forest.  From  its  front  gate  a  frail  board  footway  on 
slim  piles  ran  far  out  into  the  water  to  its  bathhouse 
and  fishing  and  boat  wharf,  combining  with  them  and 
the  pines  and  wide-spread  oaks  to  give  the  scene,  espe 
cially  when  sunset  lights  rested  on  smooth  waters,  a 
notably  Japanese  picturesqueness. 

So  it  might  have  struck  Philip,  with  his  feeling  for 
landscape,  had  he  been  less  absorbed  in  thoughts  be 
yond  the  outward  vision,  as  he  walked  westward  from 
the  town's  centre  and  came  round  a  slight  angle  where 
at  the  tide's  edge  the  slim  white  lighthouse  stood  inside 
the  paling  fence  of  its  keeper's  pretty  flower-garden. 
The  Castletons  had  just  got  home  again,  and  Philip, 
with  barely  a  day's  pause,  had  come  here  "to  begin  all 
over,"  as  he  had  told  his  dear  confidant,  the  judge, 
apologetically  left  behind  in  the  persistent  heat  of  the 
city.  It  was  the  end  of  the  week,  and  M.  Durel  had 
been  over  here  since  the  previous  afternoon,  breathing 
gentle  refreshment  from  the  pines  and  the  sea.  This 
was  entirely  to  Philip's  liking.  He  particularly  wished 
to  begin  his  new  beginning  with  monsieur.  Hence  his 
note  to  him,  sent  a  trifle  earlier  by  messenger,  asking 
leave  to  call. 

The  reply  had  found  him  waiting  on  the  steps  of  his 
88 


AT  BILOXI 

little  waterside  hotel,  his  abstracted  gaze  on  the  grace 
ful  coursings  of  the  many  pleasure-boats  that  skimmed 
the  bay  and  the  sound,  or  came  from  concealment  after 
the  long  circuit  of  Deer  Island.  He  had  wondered 
which  sail  might  be  the  Durels',  which  Zephire's,  and 
whose  might  be  a  certain  elegant  steam-yacht  anchored 
far  out,  yet  not  too  far  for  him  to  see  that  there  were 
others  on  her  deck  besides  men,  and  that  she  was 
about  to  get  under  way.  Now  as  he  passed  the  light 
house  he  noticed  that  her  anchor  was  up  and  that  she 
was  moving  in  a  direction  that  implied  Pascagoula  and 
in  lesser  degree  Mobile,  Pensacola,  Appalachicola,  and 
Floridian  harbors  in  general. 

He  felt  a  throb  of  misgiving,  but  would  not  allow  a 
second  one.  Yonder  in  the  long  shadows  of  its  aged 
grove,  wide-skirted  with  encircling  verandas,  was  the 
Durel  cottage.  Out  in  front  of  its  live-oak  bluff  and 
white  beach  the  low  sunbeams  gilded  and  crimsoned 
the  shoal  waters  beneath  and  beyond  the  hundred  slim 
legs  of  its  board  walk.  On  a  bench  under  the  four- 
sided  incurved  roof  of  its  Japanesque  fishing-wharf  a 
man  sat  at  ease,  looking  seaward.  It  was  monsieur 
himself,  awaiting  his  caller. 

His  greeting  was  proof  against  Philip's  alertest  criti 
cism;  as  free  from  coldness,  warmth,  or  sparkle  as  a 
still  wine  "  at  the  temperature  of  the  room."  The  two 
sat  down  with  the  steam-yacht  in  their  view,  but 
dwindling  in  the  wide  pink  and  blue  expanse  between 
the  pines  and  white  sands  of  Deer  and  Horn  Islands. 
A  few  words  were  said  of  the  weather,  the  season,  none 

89 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

of  the  war  that  was  convulsing  half  the  world,  and  then, 
as  Philip  took  breath  for  the  real  business,  the  banker 
remarked: 

"You  find  me  al-lone." 

The  visitor  was  pleased.  "I  hoped  I  might,  for  a 
few  minutes/'  he  said.  "Mr.  Durel,  I  know  that  ac 
cording  to  Creole  custom  three  calls  on  a  young  lady, 
at  short  intervals,  imply  courtship  and  require  one  to 
ask  her  people's  consent  before  going  further.  Isn't 
that  so?" 

With  his  eyes  out  on  the  water  monsieur  languidly 
shook  his  head :  "  Nn-o.  Used  to  be,  yes.  But  tha'z  in 
very  bad  rippair,  thad  cuztom.  Many  good  cuztom' 
of  those  Creole'  are  biccome  Ammerican-ize'  egcep' 
ammong  a  few  ole  familie'  of  the  hide-town'." 

"For  all  that,  I'd  like  to  subscribe  to  it,  sir." 

Monsieur  lifted  his  shoulders,  dropped  his  hands. 

Philip  continued:  "I'm  not  aware  how  much  you 
know  of  what  has  passed  between " 

"I  'ave  not  eave'drop'.  I  have  ask'  no  queztion'." 
A  smile  did  not  quite  sweeten  the  reply. 

"Well,"  Philip  said,  "at  any  rate,  counting  Atlantic 
City,  this  is  my  third  call,  and  I  want  you  to  allow  it  all 
a  third  call  can  mean  and  yet  say  come  again." 

Monsieur  was  looking  seaward  again.  "You  have 
the  £>er-mission  of  yo'  h-aunt,  I  su'pose?"  Zephire's 
wine  could  not  have  been  more  delicately  bitter. 

"I  ask  no  permission  but  yours,"  was  the  smiling 
reply.  "I'll  court  a  Creole  girl  in  Creole  fashion,  but 
as  to  my  own  kin  I'll  follow  my  free  American  choice, 

90 


AT  BILOXI 

and  if  I  ever  win  it  my  dear  good  auntie  will  com* 
round  to  it  as  gracefully  as  a  sailboat." 

"As  a  catboat,"  thought  monsieur. 

"That's  part  of  our  American  way,"  Philip  added. 

The  banker  slowly  turned  to  him:  "That  was  the 
manner  of  the  marriage  of  yo'  mother  an'  father?" 

"I  think  so.  I — I've  never  heard.  I've  never 
asked." 

The  Creole  mused.   "You  never  hear'?  Never  ask?" 

"Why,  no,  sir.    I  can  if  there's  any  reason " 

Monsieur's  hand  went  softly  to  Philip's  knee:  "No, 
there  is  none."  He  mused  again.  Then  abruptly: 
"Well !  Any'ow,  you,  you  prop-ose  yo'  free  Ammerican 
choice." 

"With  your  permission.  You  know  my  family,  my 
religion,  profession,  fortune,  my — my  politics,  my  char 
acter.  If  you  want  any  further  light  I  beg  you  to 
say  so." 

As  slowly  as  before  the  Creole  shook  his  head,  purs 
ing  his  lips.  "Nn-o,  I  billieve — I  billieve  I  don't 
want.  I  billieve — an'  same  time  tha'z  only  one  objec 
tion — I  billieve  yo'  h-aunt  she  be  ab'e  to  make  to  yo' 
free  Ammerican  choize  a  very  unhappy  life." 

"No,  sir.  There  is  one  thing  amply  sufficient, 
alone,  to  make  that  unsupposable." 

"Ah!  an' that  is ?" 

"Your  daughter  herself;  her  nature,  her  character. 
But  another,  nearly  as  ample,  is  my  aunt.  However, 
suppose  I  get  my  aunt's  approval.  Are  there  other 
obstacles?" 

91 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Yes,  there  are  other'." 

"  What  are  they  ?    My  profession,  family,  religion  ?  " 

Monsieur  once  more  shook  his  head.  "No.  I  know 
yo'  familie  since  abbout,  eh,  twenty-eight  year'.  I 
don't  know  if  they  thank  me  to  tell  you  something  as 
old  as  that." 

"Mr.  Durel,  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

"Ah?    What  is  yo' right?" 

"My  love  for  your  daughter.  It's  the  greatest 
thing  in  my  life  thus  far.  If  I  know  myself,  my  whole 
future  happiness  depends  on  it."  Philip  had  risen  to 
his  feet. 

His  hearer  kindly  motioned  him  down.  "I  will  tell 
you.  Yes,  tha'z  twenty-eight  year'  aggo  I  ask  yo' 
mother  to  make,  for  me,  her  free  Ammerican  choize." 

"Why^ — why,  Mr.  Durel!  And  she — was — pre 
vented?" 

The  banker  shrugged.  "For  one  reason  al-lone  she 
rifuse'.  Tha'z  biccause  yo'  h-aunt  she  don't  want. 
And  yo'  h-aunt  she  don't  want  biccause — my  n/-igion." 
The  pair  gazed  at  each  other.  Then  he  went  on:  "Of 
co'ze,  you  know,  you  see,  I  can  never  be  sorrie,  biccause 
there  is  Rosalie.  And  yo'  mother" — he  made  a  heav 
enward  gesture — "she  can  never  be  sorrie,  biccause — 
you.  An'  so,  you  see,  'tis  to  yo'  h-aunt  you  owe  both 
egsistanze  an'  Rosalie." 

Philip  gravely  smiled.  "  I  certainly  owe  her  a  double 
gratitude,"  he  said. 

"Me,  no,"  rejoined  the  unsmiling  Creole,  "not  even 
a  single.  My  gratitude  is  egsclusively  to  God."  He 

92 


AT  BILOXI 

looked  away  to  that  atom  in  the  distance,  the  steam- 
yacht. 

"Mr.  Durel,"  said  the  suitor,  "even  now,  risk  me, 
as  a  son.  I  can  be  one,  a  true  one,  and  not  shame  you 
in  my  reputation  or  my  character." 

Monsieur's  palms  rose  breast  high.  "  Iv  you  was  my 
son  you  wou'n'  have  that  char-ac-ter." 

Philip  smiled.     "I  hope  it  doesn't  seem  too  bad." 

"My  dear  sir,  on  the  con-trerry,  'tis  too  good." 

"That's  joyful  news  to  me,  sir!" 

"Mr.  Cazzleton,  for  savety,  yo'  moral  standard'  they 
are  too  high.  They  are  too  far  abbove  the  nature. 
When  a  man,  a  young  man,  have  those  moral  standard' 
too  high  they  are  in  danger  to  bring  misfortune  to  the 
married  life  ad  the  worzt  time;  tha'z  in  the  middle." 

"Why,  Mr.  Durel,"  Philip  began  to  argue,  "if  a 
young  fellow  can  pull  through  his  twenties  clean  I " 

The  Creole  courteously  stopped  him.  "Young  fel 
low'  in  their  twentie',  if  they  got  those  standard'  too 
high,  they  do  nod  dream  what  are  those  equinogtial 
storm'  of  that  middle  life.  You  know  Zephire  Durel. 
Well,  look  ad  Zephire.  He's  got  his  standard',  but— 
not  too  high.  When  Zephire  pritty  soon  reach'  thad 
middle  life  the  girl  tha'z  marrie'  to  him  she  be  prittie 
safe.  Biccause  already  he's  " — a  graceful  wave — "  been 
'up  in  the  balloon,  boys/  and  come  down  aggain. 
He's  suck'  the  h-orange." 

The  two  looked  into  each  other's  faces  until  Philip 
felt  the  jar  of  his  pulse.  "I  can't  lower  my  moral 
standards,  sir,"  he  said. 

98 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Assuredly,  no." 

"And  you  wouldn't  like  me  any  better  if  I  could." 

"Assuredly,  no." 

"Mr.  Durel,  I  can't  take  you  seriously!  I  reckon 
you'd  risk  me  if  it  were  not  for  something  else."  He 
slapped  the  back  of  the  bench.  "I  don't  believe  my 
standards  are  your  real  objection — even  if  you  do — 
any  more  than  I  believe  they'd  be — hers."  He  smiled 
away  his  warmth. 

As  the  pair  again  sat  eye  to  eye  the  banker's  memory 
ran  back  with  fresh  vividness  across  those  twenty-eight 
years  of  which  he  had  spoken.  Yet  presently  he  too 
smiled. 

"  'Tis  a  rim-arkable,  yes,  how  you  are  like  yo'  mother 
— excep'  one  thing.  And  tha'z  another  cause  for  yo' 
gTati-tude,  that  she  had  not  that.  Biccause  yoj  mother, 
if  she  had  have  had  the — the " 

"Self-assertion?" 

"Yes !  Had  she  have  had  that,  then  neither  you, 
neither  Rosalie,  you  wou'n'  never  have  been  born." 

"If  you  like  self-assertion  I  ought  to  suit  you." 

"Ah !  in  some  thing'  I  like  it;  in  some,  no.  In  great 
public  queztion',  like,  eh,  ri/-igion,  politic'- 

"When  one  man  thinks  one  way  while  thousands 
think  another " 

"Ah!  tha'z  when  I  abhor  that  self-assertion." 

"In  other  words,  I  seem  to  you  a  man  who'd  hang 
to  his  political  convictions — in  their  essentials — if  men 
of  opposite  ideas  should  outnumber  him  a  thousand  to 
one." 


AT  BILOXI 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  though  his  so  doing  should  threaten,  in  hii 
belief,  the  shipwreck  of  his  whole  future  happiness." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  then,  sir,  on  that  very  ground  I  sue  for  your 
daughter's  hand.  For  that's  the  sort  of  lifemate  she 
ought  to  have  if  he's  otherwise  personally  fit." 

"Ah!"  Monsieur  lifted  a  finger.  "Person-ally! 
My  dear  sir,  that  way  you  might  be  the  moze  fit  in 
•the  worl'  an'  still  have  notion'  abbout  thiz,  that,  the 
other- 

"Which  would  make  me  intolerable  in  society?" 

"Yes,  and  Rosalie,  she's  verrie,  verrie  fon'  of  so 
ciety."  A  pause;  then:  "Any'ow,  society  or  no,  some 
of  those  doctrine',  any  woman,  of  the  South,  or  ad  the 
leaz'  any  Creole,  she  might  herself,  too  late,  find  those 
doctrine'  in  practiz',  impossib'  to  live  with." 

"Yes,  I  dare  say  Elijah  the  Tishbite  would  have 
been  a  poor  catch  for  any  girl,  socially  or  domestically. 
But  I'm  no  Elijah.  I'm  an  ordinary  modern  gentle 
man,  one  of  whose  doctrines  is  that  we  Americans,  and 
Creoles,  too,  have  come  to  a  time  when  there's  got  to 
be  room  for  political  differences  and  marital  harmony 
in  the  same  home  at  the  same  time.  Why,  sir,  at  my 
board  or  fireside  I'd  no  more  impose  my  political  doc 
trines  offensively  upon  my  wife  by  deed  or  word  than 
upon  a  royal  guest." 

"But  same  time,  having  those  doctrine',  I  billieve 
you  wouV  have  many  guest',  let  al-lone  royal." 

Philip  smiled.  "I  think  better  of  my  city  than  that, 
95 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

far  better.  Your  daughter  will  always  have,  on  her 
own  terms,  all  the  society  she  wants.  Mr.  Durel, 
ought  politics — any  more  than  religion — to  outweigh 
true  love  and  true  fitness  combined?  I  love  your 
daughter — consumingly.  Not  merely  for  her — her  lu 
minous  beauty,  but  for  her  luminous  mind,  luminous 
soul.  To  me,  from  our  first  meeting,  we've  seemed 
made  for  each  other  by  pattern." 

"Ah-h!"  said  the  father,  who  had  fought  the  same 
impression  of  them  from  that  same  time,  "you  are  not 
yet  even  well  acquaint'." 

"Oh,  sir !  Oh,  sir !  some  acquaintances  take  long  to 
make;  some  are  made  in  a  moment.  The  glove  that 
fits  doesn't  have  to  be  stretched.  'By  these  inden 
tures/  as  the  lawyers  say,  we — we  match!" 

Monsieur  shrugged.  "Tha'z  the  way  they  all  bil- 
lieve." 

"Yes,  and  some  are  mistaken,  but  some,  sir,  are 
right !  May  I  be  allowed  one  inquiry?" 

"Ah,  I  su'pose  yes." 

"Twenty-eight  years  ago  how  was  it  with ?" 

The  Creole's  hand  flashed  up:  "No  I  tha'z  not  fair  1" 

"No,  it  is  not.  All  I  beg  is  that  you  do  by  me  as 
you  asked  to  be  done  by  then.  Will  you?  Won't 
you?" 

Once  more  the  two  men  sat  eye  to  eye,  and  again, 
as  the  moments  pulsed  away,  Philip,  at  each  new 
throb,  looked  more  and  more  like  his  mother.  It  was 
inevitable  that,  however  long  the  mutual  gaze  should 
last,  the  gazer  least  sure  of  himself  would  be  the  first 

96 


AT  BILOXI 

to  abandon  it,  and  at  length  monsieur  glanced  off  to 
where  the  yacht  was  barely  discernible  in  the  subsiding 
light. 

Whereupon  Philip  said:  "I'll  take  all  the  time  for 
acquaintance  you  want  me  to,  sir;  only  let  me  begin 
here;  this  evening;  now." 

Monsieur  slowly  shook  his  head.     "  'Tis  impossible." 

The  misgiving  which  the  suitor  had  put  away  as  he 
came  along  the  beach  returned.  "  Do  you  mean  physi 
cally  impossible?"  he  asked. 

"Physic-ally,  yes,  sir.  Rosalie  she's  yonder,  with 
inadame  an'  some  frien'" — a  wave  of  the  hand  in 
dicated  the  yacht — "a  three-week'  cruise." 


97 


XVI 
ON  THE  DUREL  BOAT-WHARF 

THE  suitor  rose  up,  gazing  after  the  distant  boat. 
Monsieur  rose  and  Philip  turned.  "Mr.  Durel,  one 
more  question — may  I?  You  probably  know,  if  only 
through  madame.  Did  your  daughter  think — think  I 
was — coming?" 

"My  dear  sir,  I  have  to  tell  you — yes,  she  thought." 

"And  it  was  her  choice — to  go  ?" 

In  tone  the  reply  was  kind.  "To  go?  Yes,  sir, 
'twas  her  free  Ammerican  choice." 

Philip  looked  again  toward  the  vanishing  craft  and 
then  back  to  monsieur:  "Was  it  American  enough  for 
you  to  say  to  me,  come  again?" 

"Mr.  Cazzleton —  My  faith,  sir,  I  do  not  know! 
Wait.  Wait  till  she's  ritturn."  The  speaker  drew  a 
meditative  sigh.  "No,  I  cann'  tell  that — till  she's 
come  back." 

Reluctantly  Philip  moved  to  go.    "Good  evening, 


sir." 


"Good  evening,  Mr.  Cazzleton." 

Where  the  beach  made  its  slight  bend  under  the 
lighthouse — now  lighted — Philip  looked  back  to  the 
cottage  where  in  such  overconfidence  he  had  hoped  to 
find  a  welcome  and  Rosalie.  A  glow  of  lamplight  from 
a  side  window  even  thus  early  shone  red  in  the  darken- 

08 


ON  THE  DUREL  BOAT-WHARF 

ing  grove,  but  the  slim,  stilted  footway  and  fishing- 
wharf  were  outlined  directly  against  the  sunset's  last 
watery  sheen,  and  there,  on  the  seat  on  which  he  had 
found  and  left  the  home's  master,  he  could  see  him 
still. 

He  turned  and  resumed  his  way.  Reaching  his 
hotel,  he  passed  on  by.  Later,  returning,  he  passed 
again.  And  so  for  hours,  in  a  night  as  balmy  as  mid 
summer  and  with  the  lighthouse  for  his  hither  limit,  he 
roamed  the  bluffs,  the  beach.  From  time  to  time  he 
rested  on  some  bench  or  the  instep  of  one  or  another 
giant  oak.  At  such  moments  disappointment  particu 
larly  harried  him,  but  it  too  had  its  limits,  to  which 
he  held  it,  and  neither  resting  nor  going  would  he  con 
fess  himself  disabled  from  sleeping  should  he  choose 
to  sleep.  Seemingly  he  merely,  mildly  scorned  that 
choice.  To  commune  with  frequent  cigars,  beneath  the 
serene  heavens  and  above  an  unruffled  sea  was  better 
than  dreams  or  oblivion. 

And  there  was  another  communion,  or  a  sympathy 
akin  to  communion.  It  was  with  the  father  of  Rosa 
lie.  He  was  neither  at  hand  nor  in  sight,  but  if  Philip 
saw  signs  aright  he  certainly  was  awake.  For  each 
time  the  lover,  in  his  fitful  course,  returned  to  the  foot 
of  the  lighthouse,  where  the  night  had  early  reduced 
all  things  landward  or  seaward  to  phantom  outlines, 
his  sight  rested  on  that  abiding  glow  at  one  curtained 
window  over  in  the  darkness  of  the  Durel  grove. 

"Half-past  two  in  the  morning/'  thought  the  gazer, 
"and  he's  there  yet.  Reading,  most  likely,  war  stuff, 

99 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

or  trying  to  read.  Poor  man !  It's  you  who  can't 
sleep,  and  I  who  steal  enlightenment  from  your  light 
and  hope  from  your  distress.  Does  she  love  me,  after 
all  ?  That  light  wouldn't  be  burning  if  you  knew  she 
did  not.  She  may  not  herself  know.  But  if  she  knew 
she  did  not,  why  should  she  have  fled  ?  She  knows  she 
loves  her  father  with  the  same  passion  with  which  he 
loves  her.  Why  may  it  not  be  that  his  devotion  has 
moved  him  to  force  our  American  way  on  her,  and 
that  her  devotion  to  him  has  prompted  her  to  force 
on  him,  by  this  flight,  the  old  Creole  way? 

Lover's  logic.  But  it  so  revived  the  lover's  hope 
that  the  thought  of  indoor  rest,  even  at  the  risk  of 
sleep,  became  bearable,  acceptable.  Yet  first  he  would 
take  one  more  idle  turn,  out  the  narrow  board  footway 
to  the  small  wharf  whence  Rosalie  had  made  her  em 
barkation,  and  where  he  had  sat  with  the  father  whom 
new  hope  made  it  so  easy  to  compassionate.  When  he 
had  nearly  reached  the  spot  he  was  suddenly  aware 
that  the  bench  was  occupied  and  before  he  could  start 
away  the  sitter  had  risen  and  spoken: 

"Eh,  bien?    Well,  sir?" 

"A  thousand  pardons,  Mr.  Durel.  I  didn't  dream 
you  were  still  here." 

"Tha'z  no  matter,  sir.    Come,  sit  down  aggain." 

They  sat  down,  remarking  on  the  beauty  of  the 
hour.  "We  see  a  thousand  whole  days  to  one  whole 
night,"  Philip  added,  "yet  rarely  see  any  one  whole 
night  by  choice." 

The  Creole  made  no  reply.  "We  bless  sleep,"  Philip 
100 


ON  THE  DUREL  BOAT-WHARF 

ventured  on,  "but  we'd  now  and  then  bless  a  sleepless 
night  if  we'd  spend  it  under  the  stars." 

Again  monsieur  was  silent,  till  Philip  stirred  to  rise; 
but  then  he  detained  him,  saying:  "Yonder,  in  France, 
many  hun'red  thousan'  are  every  night  awake  enough." 

Whereupon,  not  so  much  for  the  oppressive  interest 
of  the  battle  of  the  Marne  as  for  each  other's  respite 
from  the  immeasurably  smaller  matter  which  more  in 
tolerably  oppressed  them,  they  talked  of  Europe's 
cataclysm.  Talked  on  for  more  than  two  hours  and 
came  by  and  by  to  a  point  then  much  in  the  public 
mind;  the  exalted  seat  believed  to  be  awaiting  America 
in  the  world's  council  at  the  war's  end.  On  that  theme 
Philip  wTarmed. 

"But  think,"  he  said,  "how  we  and  all  mankind 
would  be  helped  on  and  up  if  Uncle  Sam  could  sit  in 
that  council,  even  by  comparison,  outwardly  clean  and 
inwardly  pure!  Mr.  Durel,  it  shames  our  makeshift 
politics!" 

Monsieur  said  all  effective  politics  were  inevitable 
compromises  between  what  ought  to  be  and  what  is. 

"No,"  said  Philip,  "not  all.  I  can't  believe  our 
Southern  doctrine  of  salvation — that  the  only  political 
effectiveness  is  official  power  at  all  cost  and  that  vic 
tory  at  the  polls,  fair  or  foul,  is  the  only  victory  worth 
while.  'Tisn't  true,  sir.  History  belies  it.  Some 
times  defeat  is  victory  and  victory  is  defeat.  Until  we 
think  so  we  can  never  take  a  front  seat  in  the  world's 
councils,  and,  oh,  what  business  have  we  in  a  back 
seat?" 

101 


'v:  *  LOWERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

So  after  all,  through  the  lover's  plain  fault,  they 
were  still  harping  on  the  daughter.  For  the  father, 
even  more  clearly  than  he,  saw  that  this  argufying  was, 
in  essence,  but  a  page  from  a  lover's  brief.  Once  more 
he  sat  mute  and  this  time  Philip  stood  up.  "Sunday 
morning  !"  he  remarked,  for  off  over  the  waters  where 
the  yacht  had  vanished  the  sky  was  flushing.  Mon 
sieur  rose.  They  grasped  hands.  "Good  day,  sir," 
Philip  lightly  said. 

"Good  day,"  was  the  response,  and  then  to  Philip's 
amazement:  "Come  aggain." 

"Come — you  don't  mean — when ?" 

"Yes,  I  mean  that.  I  cann'  say  thad  be  any  use, 
but — if  you  want " 


102 


XVII 
RAISING  THE  DUST 

SHORTLY  after  bank  hours  two  or  three  days  subse 
quent  to  Philip 's  Sunday  in  Biloxi  the  judge  and  he 
entered  Ovide's  book-shop,  bringing  with  them  whom 
but  Murray. 

The  Scot  had  arrived  in  the  city  barely  twenty-four 
hours  earlier  and  the  three  came  now  from  one  of  the 
Canal  Street  clubs,  where,  on  the  two  Castletons'  invi 
tation,  he  had  met  at  lunch  M.  Durel  and  two  or  three 
others  equally  qualified  to  say  the  best  for  the  interests 
and  policies  of  their  town  and  State.  There  his  curi 
osity  had  proved  as  untiring  as  ever,  and  with  every 
one  except  M.  Durel  fired  to  reply  to  queries  that  haled 
their  whole  social  scheme  into  the  world's  court,  the 
hour  or  two  had  not  been  without  some  spicy  breezes. 
At  the  first  sign  of  dispersal  the  intrepid  Briton  had 
asked  M.  Durel  how  soon,  and  how,  he  might  see 
Landry.  The  Creole  had  very  courteously  and  plau 
sibly  excused  himself,  the  Castletons  had  offered  their 
guidance,  and  on  the  way  Philip  had  told  of  Ovide's 
part  in  the  sale  of  Zephire's  Louisianas,  and  of  later 
talks  enjoyed  with  the  bookseller. 

This  had  so  entertained  the  Scot  that  on  the  shop's 
threshold  with  the  judge  he  had  faced  Philip,  still  on 
the  sidewalk,  and  bade  him  not  break  off.  The  story 

103 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

just  then  was  of  the  gentle  dignity  with  which  the 
black  man  had  professed  gratitude  for  an  "inner  lib 
erty"  which  his  race's  loss  of  much  outward  freedom 
could  not  destroy;  a  condition,  he  had  said,  far  better 
than  the  outward  liberty  without  the  inner. 

As  Ovide  was  being  further  quoted  to  the  effect  that 
in  Europe,  for  a  thousand  years,  unnumbered  Jews,  by 
this  inner  liberty,  had  got  more  out  of  life  than  the 
majority  of  their  oppressors,  the  judge  had  bowed 
slightly  to  a  passer-by,  and  Philip,  turning,  had  recog 
nized  the  strong,  well-tailored  back  and  short  legs  of 
Zephire.  The  Creole  had  both  heard  his  words  and 
guessed  from  whom  they  were  so  approvingly  borrowed. 

The  three  callers  found  themselves  not  Ovide's  only 
visitors.  In  advance  of  them  were  two  pretty  ladies 
whom  the  Castletons  were  surprised  to  hear  addressing 
the  black  man  as  "Mr.  Landry,"  until  they  were  found 
to  be  the  wife  and  daughter  of  the  president  of  a  North 
ern  missionary  college  for  negroes.  They  were  seeking 
a  book  for  him  which  Ovide  could  not  supply,  but  which 
the  judge  ventured  to  say  he  had  at  home,  and  would 
be  pleased  to  lend  through  the  ladies  and  "Mr.  Lan 
dry." 

This  kindness  being  accepted  with  a  brightness  which 
both  Castletons  interpreted  as  social  hunger,  the  Scot 
thrust  in  one  of  his  appalling  queries:  Had  "Mr.  Lawn- 
dry"  ever,  in  his  stormy  days,  known  any  political 
leader  as  black  as  himself,  yet,  by  the  admission  of  his 
opponents,  wise,  gifted,  and  upright? 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  prompt  reply,  given  with  a  touch 
104 


RAISING  THE   DUST 

)f  that  verbal  pomp  which  so  besets  the  aspiring  negro, 
'I  can  designate  at  least  two  from  whom  no  well- 
jiformed  man  can  withhold  that  characterization." 

"Lieutenant-governors?"  suggested  the  smiling 
judge. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  men  of  the  square  deal  every  time." 
Philip  ventured  two  historic  names:  "Dunn?    An- 
toine?" 

"The  same,  sir,"  said  Ovide,  and  presently  the  Scot 
lad  the  whole  group  involved  in  a  discussion  of  race 
relations  near  and  far,  from  New  Orleans  to  Mandalay, 
wherein  the  ladies  spoke  so  engagingly  and  the  Castle- 
tons  so  liberally  that  in  the  end  an  agreement  was  made 
that  Philip,  on  the  next  Sabbath  afternoon,  in  the  main 
hall  of  the  negro  college,  should  address  a  "literary 
society"  of  which  Ovide  was  the  presiding  head. 

Of  this  also  Zephire  was  a  witness.    With  his  slight 
Dversuppleness  of  shoulders  he  had  loitered  in,  turned 
bis  back  and,  while  apparently  browsing  among  the 
Dooks,  listened.     As  Murray  and  the  Castletons  were 
eaving  they  had  to  pass  him  so  closely  that  his  failure 
make  room  caused  Philip  to  look  back.    The  Creole's 
ance  met  his  and  Philip  saluted,  but  his  only  reward 
as  a  burning  stare  which  later  rested  on  the  ladies  as 
ey  departed  another  way. 

Mr.  Murray,  walking  up  Chartres  Street  between 
s  older  and  younger  friend  and  halting  every  few 
irds  to  declare  New  Orleans  the  most  picturesque 
ty  in  the  United  States — "and  as  ill-kept  as  New 
ork  if  ye  care  to  boast  it" — explained  that  the  war, 
105 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

soon  to  call  him  home,  was  meantime  keeping  him  here 
on  business  for  his  government. 

On  Sunday  Philip  gave  his  address  to  a  crowded 
house.  "The  negro/'  murmured  the  judge  to  the 
Scot,  in  a  front  seat,  "is  always  eager  to  hear  any 
white  man's  counsel  and  to  see  its  wisdom  if  he  can." 

Besides  those  two  and  the  two  missionary  ladies 
there  was  but  one  white  hearer  in  the  audience.  From 
his  platform  seat  between  the  black  and  white  presi 
dents,  of  the  literary  society  and  the  college,  Philip 
espied,  far  back  near  the  entrance,  Zephire. 

A  radical  fault  in  his  discourse  was  its  forlorn  futility 
as  coming  from  a  Southerner.  "Friends  and  fellow 
citizens,"  he  began,  "I  can  hope  for  no  whole-hearted 
acceptance  of  what  I  have  to  say  unless  while  I  bear 
in  mind  that  you  are  colored  you  kindly  forget  that  I 
am  white."  The  Scot  grunted  to  the  judge: 

"Too  Northern  to  please  any  Southerner  and  too 
Southern  to  please  any  Northerner."  In  fact,  Zephire, 
near  the  door,  swelled  and  stiffened,  while  many  dark 
faces  wore  a  humble  perplexity.  However,  the  lecturer 
entered  into  a  laudation  of  the  countless  benefits  of 
municipal,  State,  and  national  government  to  even  the 
least  privileged  elements  of  a  people  and  appealed  to  his 
hearers  so  to  live  up  to  these  benefits  as  to  live  down 
the  few  drawbacks  which,  the  world  over,  in  one  degree 
or  another,  mar  them.  "When  we  find  the  fly  in  the 
ointment,"  he  asked,  "which  shall  we  strive  to  make 
the  most  of,  the  fly  or  the  ointment  ?  "  (Applause.) 

Remembering  Ovide's  word  about  the  Jews  and  the 
106 


RAISING  THE  DUST 

"inner  liberty,"  and  reminding  his  audience  of  their 
habit  of  paralleling  their  case  with  that  of  ancient 
Israel,  he  exhorted  them  to  extend  the  parallel  into 
present  times  and  win  out  as  modern  Israel  has  won 
out  or  is  winning  out.  "By  use  of  the  splendid  rights 
you  now  enjoy — which  millions  of  white  men  are  still 
deprived  of — make  yourselves  privately  so  estimable 
and  publicly  so  valuable  that  the  few  rights  yet  denied 
you  will  come  by  natural  gravitation  if  not  to  you  to 
your  children's  children."  (Faint  applause.)  "Don't 
stay  down  because  you  can't  take  the  elevator.  Take 
the  stairs — or  even  the  fire-escape ! — and  enter  your 
complaints  on  the  top  floor."  (Applause  heartier  but 
chiefly  from  the  literary  society.) 

At  the  close  Ovide,  the  college  president,  his  wife 
and  daughter,  and  a  good  dozen  of  the  darker  race  or 
the  half-and-half  gratefully  shook  the  speaker's  hand. 
Nevertheless  Philip,  though  he  went  away  between  the 
Scot  and  the  judge,  looking  very  gallant,  went  silent, 
mentally  aching.  Not  a  remark  on  his  address  did 
either  of  his  elders  offer,  but  talked  of  the  Aisne,  of 
Antwerp  and  Calais,  and  of  crimes  between  whole  na 
tions,  so  vast  and  hideous,  so  brazen  and  calamitous, 
that  to  dwell  with  censure  and  alarm  on  poor  Dixie's 
well-meant  mistakes  argued  a  political  pedantry  too 
ill-timed  and  grotesque  to  be  worthy  a  scholar  or  a 
gentleman. 

Well,  who  had  dwelt  with  censure  and  alarm?  he 
asked  himself,  because  at  every  step  every  facet  of  his 
thought  reflected  the  image  of  Rosalie  Durel,  and  it 

107 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

was  her  glorious  eyes  that  seemed  mutely  to  accuse 
him.  No,  his  one  great  care  had  been  to  make  clear 
that,  whatever  his  convictions,  his  supreme  sympathies 
and  solicitudes  were  for  his  own  race.  If  that  did  not 
squarely  cover  the  point,  so  much  the  worse;  it  was 
the  best  his  best  manhood  could  say  even  to  those  dear 
eyes.  He  longed  to  be  a  few  minutes  alone  with  the 
judge,  but  the  Scot  walked  on  St.  Charles  Avenue  with 
them  a  mile  or  more  beyond  his  hotel.  When  he  halted 
he  said  to  Philip: 

"I  hear  you're  chosen  on  grand  jury." 

"And  they've  made  him  its  chairman/'  said  the 
judge. 

But  Philip  asked  abruptly:  "What  did  you  think  of 
my  performance  just  now?" 

"Man,  'twas  over  their  heads,  but  'twas  better  than 
I  expected." 

"And  still ?" 

"Still  I'm  wondering  what  you'd  have  said  to  an 
audience  of  your  own  white  people  ? " 

"What  can  one  say  while  all  Europe's  afire?" 

"More  than  ever!  I'd  say  don't  drop  your  own 
political  day's  work  to  gape  at  our  ruin.  Be  warmed 
by  us.  Vawst  as  it  is,  somewhere  in  our  heedless  yes 
terdays  it  began  as  a  gerrm!" 

"The  kingdom  of  Satan  is  like  a  grain  of  mustard- 
seed?" 

"  Ay,  and  far  smaller !  Gentlemen,  it's  as  true  in 
politics  as  in  medicine  that  the  prrofoundest  evils  are 
invisible  to  the  common  eye.  May  the  good  Lorrd 

108 


RAISING  THE  DUST 

deliver  y'r  Dixie  from  snuggling  down  in  any  politics 
that  are  not  good  political  sanitation.  Well—  '  he 
gave  his  hand.  "I'm  leaving  you  day  after  to-mor 
row." 

The  hour  of  the  traveller's  departure  was  a  very 
early  one  but  Philip  was  at  the  station  to  speed  him. 
"You're  good,"  said  the  Briton,  "and  I'm  glad,  for 
I've  news  for  you.  Paying  congee  to  the  Smiths  lawst 
night  they  told  me  that  those  yacht  people,  you 
know ?" 

Yes,  Philip  knew. 

"Are  expected  back  in  ten  days,  and  the  Smiths  are 
to  give  them  a  reception.  The  Durels  are  to  be  in 
vited,  of  course,  and  the  Castletons.  Also  they  tell 
me  your  Sunday  talk,  badly  misreporrted,  is  raising  a 
devil  of  a  dust."  The  train  began  to  move.  "Hah! 
and  I'd  something  to  tell  you  about  that  cousin  at  the 
bottom  o'  the  alphabet,  but — "  They  could  only 
wave  farewell. 


109 


XVIII 
ALSO  THEY  MANOEUVRE 

DAY  by  day,  wherever  Philip  went,  however  em 
ployed — before  his  classes,  at  club  or  theatre,  on  the 
sidewalk,  in  the  street-cars — he  found  himself  placidly 
slighted. 

Wherever  he  sat  the  seat  next  him  stood  vacant. 
In  New  Orleans  the  handshake,  the  pause  on  the  curb 
stone  for  a  social  word,  was  universal,  but  now  in  his 
case  the  pause,  the  handshake,  all  but  ceased,  except 
that  here  and  there  an  old  playmate  overdid  it. 

Outwardly  he  remained  unruffled,  of  course,  but  he 
was  acutely  pained.  Often  the  worthiest  "love  a 
fight" — the  humor  of  it.  Not  he;  he  could  see  no 
humor  in  it.  And  that  vexed  him  with  himself. 
Moreover,  here  was  no  fight.  He  wished  they  would 
wait  till  he  should  say  or  do  something  not  so  utterly 
trivial  that  cavil's  smallest  pincers  could  hardly  pick 
it  up.  He  might  have  found  comfort  in  the  thought 
that  this  was  an  every-day  experience  to  most  public 
men ;  but  he  did  not  want  comfort — would  be  ashamed 
to  be  comforted  after  having  confessed  to  an  alien  race 
the  wrong-doings  of  his  own,  however  undeniable. 

He  was  silent  even  to  the  judge,  who,  he  saw,  was 
getting  a  lighter  share  of  the  same  trial.  That  also 
hurt  him  and  when  a  bit  of  State  history  in  one  of  the 

ilO 


ALSO  THEY  MANOEUVRE 

scrap-books  required  him  to  consult  Ovide  he  willingly 
met  the  old  bookman's  conversational  advances  half 
way,  letting  himself  fancy  Rosalie  a  hearer,  though  she 
was  still  on  the  yacht.  For  so  did  his  love  consume 
him  that  everything  with  which  he  had  to  do  was 
weighed  and  measured  by  its  supposable  bearing  on 
her. 

It  was  in  such  a  mind  that  he  by  and  by  found  him 
self  saying :  "  Really,  Landry,  your  old-time  abolitionist 
friends  had  certain  advantages  over  to-day's." 

"Yes,"  said  Ovide,  with  his  touch  of  pomp,  "condi 
tions  were  more  flagrant,  sir.  Also  they  had  faith  in 
us." 

"They  were  illusioned;  we  are  disillusioned." 

"Yes,"  Ovide  further  admitted,  "to  most  of  the 
world  my  people  are  no  longer  even  interesting." 

"Yet  the  world,"  said  Philip,  "has  really  grown 
kinder.  Trouble  is,  it's  harder  than  ever  for  even  the 
kindest  to  take  the  colored  race  in  earnest.  Pardon 
me,  but  it  seems  a  race  of  children." 

"Say,  rather,  a  child  race,  professor,  which  every 
peasantry  is,  isn't  it?  But  we're  not  all  children  and 
we  claim  the  inalienable,  individual  child's  right  to 
grow  up  to  such  modern  manhood  as  we  individually 
can.  Sir,  our  deprivation  of  that  right  is  the  rock  our 
ship  of  freedom  has  stuck  on  these  fifty  years." 

Philip  gathered  himself  for  a  rejoinder  which  he  be 
lieved  to  be  formidable,  but  a  buyer  thrust  a  book 
under  the  old  man's  eyes  to  know  its  price,  and  Philip 
left,  continuing  the  debate  in  his  mind  alone.  No, 

111 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

not  alone,  but  with  that  one,  far  at  sea,  with  whom  he 
unceasingly  communed. 

The  owner  of  the  yacht  was  a  famous  Northern  rail 
way  president  whom  the  war  had  caught  cruising  in 
the  Gulf  and  whose  wife,  cruising  with  him,  would  not 
hear  of  his  hazarding  the  Atlantic  while  any  war-ship 
thereon,  British  or  German,  could  to  their  peril  make 
any  imaginable  mistake.  Their  New  Orleans  friends, 
the  Smiths,  lived  up-town,  and  the  lofty  rooms  of  their 
wide  house  allowed  a  very  large  assemblage,  of  which 
a  full  third  this  time  was  Creole. 

The  city's  choicest  people  were  there — masters  and 
mistresses  of  all  its  heights  of  power.  Here  English 
was  spoken  with  the  Creole  accent,  there  French  with 
a  sturdy  American  flavor,  and  here  and  there  a  tranquil 
two  or  three  called  each  other,  with  an  Oriental  bland- 
ness,  such  names  as  Isidore  and  Rachel.  Arts  and  let 
ters  were  not  wholly  unrepresented,  the  ribbon  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  might  be  seen  and  young  girls  were 
plentiful  and  beautiful.  More  than  one  were  from 
South  America.  The  two  elder  Durels  appeared. 
Madame  shone  fair  among  the  fairest.  Her  son  main 
tained  a  most  finished  and  capable  exterior,  though 
gladly  accepting  a  seat  as  often  as  the  rigor  of  the  oc 
casion  permitted,  and  looking  pitifully  weary  whenever 
safe  from  observation.  Zephire,  too,  was  present,  con 
spicuous,  outspoken,  gay,  widely  acquainted. 

Naturally  in  so  general  a  gathering  there  were  in 
congruities.  There  was  an  affable,  showy  man  whom 

112 


ALSO  THEY  MANOEUVRE 

Zephire  twice  and  again  sought  out  to  be  jovial  with, 
and  who  must  have  been  valued  for  something  much 
better  than  the  enterprise  which  had  won  him  a  for 
tune,  for  even  Alphonse  Durel,  in  moments  of  actual 
contact,  showed  him  marked  though  unsmiling  consid 
eration.  He  was  now  a  bold  operator  in  cotton — quite 
the  proper  thing — but  had  been  lessee  of  the  State 
penitentiary  before  the  abominations  of  the  "private 
lease  system"  had  brought  about  its  own  abolition. 
He  and  Zephire,  Philip  had  heard  at  the  first  session 
of  his  grand  jury,  had  long  been  and  were  yet  "in  ca 
hoot,"  to  borrow  a  term  from  the  Scot's  note-book. 

Another  oddity  was  the  presence  of  that  winsome 
mother  and  daughter  from  the  missionary  college. 
Holden  was  their  name.  It  seems  they  were  cousins 
of  the  railway  president's  wife.  The  Smiths,  who,  by 
the  by,  were  of  Miss  Castleton's  church,  had  felt  com 
pelled  to  invite  these  bright-eyed  social  starvelings, 
and  they  had  known  no  better  than  to  come.  The 
daughter  had  urged  the  venture,  with  Philip  Castleton 
in  the  middle  of  her  mind.  They  made  no  acquain 
tance  beyond  Philip's  aunt,  on  whom  Mrs.  Smith 
gracefully  unloaded  them.  Oddly,  they  turned  out  to 
be  old  friends  of  two  or  three  of  the  aunt's  dearest  mis 
sionaries  in  Singapore  and  Manila.  Nevertheless,  it 
was  some  faltered  word  of  hers  that  caused  them  to 
decline  the  escort  of  Philip  and  the  judge  to  the  re 
freshment-room,  and  they  were  the  first  to  leave,  going 
unaware  that  they  had  made  staying  more  awkward 
for  the  Castletons,  all  three. 

113 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

These,  the  Castletons,  were  tempted  to  wonder  if 
they  were  really  themselves,  into  such  unimportance 
had  they  fallen.  No  one  was  rude,  but  they  remained 
unsought,  and  those  whom  Philip  especially  approached 
had  little  to  say,  nothing  to  ask,  and  were  easily  dis 
tracted.  There  was  one  exception,  Mme.  Durel.  Her 
sweetness,  interest,  and  grace  were  as  modestly  forth 
coming  to  them  as  to  the  most  courted,  and  gave  her 
the  spiritual  guise  and  fragrance  of  a  blossoming  rose- 
tree  in  its  fiftieth  year.  So  she  was  to  all  eyes,  but 
above  all  to  the  judge's  and  Philip's.  To  Philip's  in 
quiries  she  replied  that  Rosalie  was  at  another  party, 
but  would  soon  arrive,  and  that  all  summer  she,  Rosa 
lie,  had  lacked  vigor,  spirit — "may-be  bic-cause  mal 
aria."  Also  that  the  yacht  trip  had  proved  hardly 
"worse  w'ile;  di'n'  do  no  good." 


114 


XIX 

AT  AN  UP-TOWN  RECEPTION 

WHILE  these  words  were  tinkling  on  his  heart  the  girl 
herself  appeared,  at  madame's  side;  or,  as  we  may  say, 
the  brightest  star  in  heaven  floated  from  a  cloud  and 
stood  beside  the  moon.  A  hundred  adroit  eyes  noted 
the  star  and  her  worshipper.  Would  she  too  show  poor 
attention,  have  little  to  say  and  nothing  to  ask  ?  Not 
so.  Her  opening  word  smote  him  with  a  thrill.  In  no 
dream  of  her  could  glance  or  tone  have  shed  on  him  a 
greeting  so  radiantly  kind.  And  this  was  no  dream,  for 
from  three  directions  through  the  twittering  crowd 
three  remote  observers  witnessed  it  unwillingly — mon 
sieur,  Miss  Castleton,  and  Zephire. 

In  a  moment  Philip  was  offering  the  same  escort 
which  Emily  Holden  had  most  reluctantly  denied  her 
self.  Which  being  again  declined,  he  proposed  a  seat 
beside  inadame.  But  Rosalie  chose  to  stand.  With 
friends  pressing  in  upon  her  from  all  sides,  she  praised 
the  superiority  of  the  outer  air,  an  air  as  of  midsum 
mer,  said  with  careful  lightness,  "I  suppose  presently 
I'll  maybe  find  myself  in  the  garden,"  and  turned  to 
others,  with  affectionate  greetings. 

The  garden  was  a  very  attractive  one,  whose  wealth 
of  unusual  flowers  offered  ample  excuse  for  anybody 
seeming  to  forget  the  claims  and  lures  of  the  social 

115 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

moment,  and  Philip,  uncompanioned,  had  only  to  drift 
there  with  the  prattling  tide  and  woo  the  roses  while 
awaiting  their  queen.  But  roses  will  not  be  wooed  by 
the  restless,  and  when  he  began  to  fear  that  she  had 
been  set  to  pour  tea  or  that  her  two  seniors  and  she 
had  taken  their  leave,  he  found  her  in  the  nearest 
doorway,  held  there  by  two  other  Creole  girls.  How 
ever,  these  took  wing,  and  soon  he  and  she  were  once 
more  among  the  flowers.  "Now  tell  me,"  he  said, 
"how  youVe  passed  the  long  summer." 

"Long ?    For  you  ?    At  those  gay  Virginia  places  ?  " 

"Their  gayety  didn't  shorten  it.  To  me,  in  at  least 
one  respect,  it  was  one  'long,  long,  weary  day';  I've 
been  so  vexed  with  myself  ever  since  we  were  last  in  a 
garden  together,  and  so  wishful  to  confess  it." 

"And  to  take  back  all  you  said,  eh?" 

"No,  that's  the  one  thing  I  can't  do,  mademoiselle." 

From -the  girl  came  a  faint  start,  a  shade  of  distress, 
a  restraining  stir  of  the  hand,  and  then  a  dissimulating 
lightness:  "Ah,  'long,  long,  weary' — that's  made  in 
Germany,  that  quotation !  You  shouldn't  quote  that 
to  me  when  I've  been  ever  since  the  1st  of  August 
knit-knit-knitting  for  those  French  soldiers,  and  now 
am  meet-meet-meeting  for  the  Red  Cross."  She 
turned  back  toward  the  house. 

For  into  view  a  short  way  off  had  come  the  two  male 
Durels,  Zephire  urging  some  matter  on  monsieur  with 
much  warmth.  Yet  she  spoke  on: 

"But  you,  if  the  summer  had  not  been  so  long  and 
weary  I  wculd  say  tell  me  how  you've  passed  it.  But" 

116 


AT  AN  UP-TOWN  RECEPTION 

— she  dropped  her  voice,  Z£phire  was  approaching  them 
— "  for  that  you'll  have  to  come  at  Esplanade  Avenue. 
Mere  tells  me  to  invite  you." 

Philip's  heart  leaped.  "I  will!"  he  said  in  hurried 
undertone,  and  Zephire  reached  them.  Rosalie  halted. 
Philip  bowed  and  stepped  away  to  her  father. 

Monsieur's  reception  of  him  was  flawless  in  speech, 
but  his  face  was  not  the  face  that  Philip  had  parted 
with  at  Biloxi.  Yet  the  lover,  with  Rosalie's  and  ma- 
dame's  invitation  still  ringing  in  his  heart,  could  not 
believe  this  frigidity  was  meant  for  him.  With  happy 
animation  he  said  to  monsieur,  whose  arms  were 
folded:  "So,  Mr.  Durel,  your  house,  I  see,  is  once  more 
a  home." 

"Yes,  sir,  and" — the  father  watched  his  daughter 
and  Zephire  pass  indoors — "a  home  is  a  sacred.  We 
are  juz'  riturning  there.  I'll  bid  you  good  evening,  sir." 

Philip  caught  a  breath.  "Oh — let  me  say,  sir" — he 
brightened  afresh — "I've  just  been  invited  to  call — in 
your  restored  paradise." 

Monsieur  slowly  shook  his  head.  "Mr.  Cazzleton,  I 
rigret  to  tell  you,  tha'z  a  mizunderstanding." 

"You  mean  to  say ?" 

The  Creole  shrugged  and  went  back  a  step.  "That 
home  is  a  very  small.  I'm  sure  that  call  wou'n'  be 
pleasant  for  a  gen'leman  that  ricquire  his  friend'  to 
forget  he's  white.  An'  neither  for  yo'  gran'father. 
Well,  good  evening." 

"Good  evening,"  said  Philip.  Turning,  he  met  the 
judge. 

117 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Why,  Phil!    What ?" 

"Don't  ask  me,  please;  not  here,  now." 
"All  right.    Come,  auntie  wants  to  tell  the  Smiths 
we've  had  a  delightful  time." 

The  three  motored  home  bright  enough  and  in  their 
own  hall  Miss  Castleton,  so  prettily  middle-aged,  per 
fectly  dressed,  and  socially  excellent,  still  smiled  while 
caressing  Philip's  shoulder  and  beckoning  him  up 
stairs.  But  when  she  faced  him  in  her  room  she  was 
in  tears. 

"Auntie !  what  a  shame  for  them  to  punish  you  for 
me!" 

"My  boy !  I  can  leave  them  to  their  conscience  as 
I  leave  you  to  yours !  But,  oh,  if  you'd  only  thought 

— would  only  yet  think " 

"What,  dear,  who,  which?" 

"If  you'd  only  recognize  that  whatever  the  great 
majority  of  a  people  passionately  believe  to  be  true 
and  right  is  almost  sure  to  be  so !" 

"Passionately,  auntie?    History  doesn't  say  so." 
"Ah,  history!    Your  stereotyped  argument!" 
"Oh,  that  it  were  Dixie's!    But  we  won't  argue, 
auntie;  that's  not  what  I  came  up  to  say." 
"Did  you  come  up  to  tell  me  something?" 
"I  did.    You  saw  us  go  into  the  garden  ?" 
"Yes" — Philip  knew  no  one  who  could  so  winsome- 
ly  mingle  grief  and  love  as  his  aunt — "I  saw  you, 
Phil." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "out  there  I— I  walked  the  plank." 
She  hung  an  instant  between  gratification  and  re- 
118 


AT  AN  DP-TOWN  RECEPTION 

sentment.    Then — "Rosalie    Durel    dared    to    reject 
you?" 

"Her  father  did.  He's  very  daring.  To  cap  this 
general  situation  he's  formally,  flatly  excommunicated 
me." 

"Alpho"'— Miss  Castleton  caught  herself— "Mr. 
Durel  had  the  face  to  do  that?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  You  spoke  his  first  name,  auntie.  There's 
something  about  him  I'd  like  to  ask." 

"  Don't,  dear  boy,  don't.  I  will  say  this  much :  Long 
before  you — even  before  I — was  born,  your  grandfather 
— oh — ask  him.  Phil,  is  he  excommunicated,  too?" 

"Yes.    If  anybody  can  tell  me  why " 

The  lady  did  not  say  she  could  or  could  not,  but  after 
a  pauses"  Oh,  Philip !  And  this  ends  all,  doesn't  it  ? " 

"Doesn't  end  my  feeling  for  her;  only  heightens  it." 

"You — you  surely  won't  attempt  in  any  way  to — to 
circumvent  her  father,  will  you  ?  " 

"No,  as  to  that  you  may  rest  easy." 

"  Ah,  my  Christian  gentleman ! " 

Philip  laughed.  "I'd  like  to  be  a  Christian  ruffian; 
that's  the  newest  invention.  Don't  commend  me;  I 
know  mighty  well  that  nobody '11  ever  win  her  by  any 
thievery,  highhanded  or  underhanded." 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  want  a  girl  you  could  win  that 
way!" 

"No.  No,  I  suppose  not — under  these  circum 
stances.  I  owe  that  to  your  bringing  up." 

"My  darling!  My  heart  bleeds  for  you,"  said  the 
aunt,  but  it  bled  no  tears.  Her  tears  had  dried. 

119 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Thanks."  he  said.  "But  you're  glad,  too,  aren't 
you?" 

"Oh,  my  dear — yes.  I'm  so  glad  that  I — if  I'd  ever 
sung  a  tune  in  my  life — I  could  sing  the  doxology ! " 

The  nephew  smiled.  "Let's  omit  the  doxology.  I 
came  up  also  to  ask  a  question." 

"Oh,  Phil,  I  can't " 

"It's  not  as  to  him  or  the  judge,  either;  I've  nearly 
guessed  out  both  those  things.  But  when  you  were 
talking  to  those  two  poor  little  ladies — N.  T.'s " 

"Those  Holdens ?    It  was  very  hard  to  do,  Phil." 

"Yet  you  did  it,  sweet.  And  I  heard  you  tell  them 
about  our  church  inspectors  of  missions  begging  you  to 
go  with  them  to  the  Far  East,  and  of  your  refusing, 
although  it's  been  your  lifelong  dream  to  go.  Didn't  I 
hear  that?" 

"Yes,  dear,  though  I  didn't  intend  you  should." 

"So  that's  all  off,  is  it— your  part  of  it?" 

"My  dear,  no.  I  thought  it  was,  till  now.  But 
now  that  this  affair  of  yours  is  off,  bless  God  for  his 
wonderful  ways,  I  can  go.  I'll  write  the  board  to 
night." 

"And  you  were  stifling  a  lifelong  wish  on  my  ac 
count  ! " 

"Whatever's  your  account  is  mine,  Phil." 

"Well,  auntie" — holding  the  door  ajar — "maybe  I'm 
flippant,  but  that's  what  I  call  being  too  good —  Yes, 
judge,  I'm  coming." 


120 


XX 

BUT  LOVE  CAN  LIVE  ON  LOVE 

WEEKS  wore  by.  The  great  city's  life,  so  clamorous, 
picturesque,  unique,  grew  as  steadily  in  volume  and 
energy  as  a  rise  in  its  vast  river. 

In  all  the  breathings  and  pulsings  of  its  multiple 
functions — commercial,  governmental,  social,  festal — it 
daily,  nightly  breathed,  drank,  that  wonder  of  itself 
which  makes  the  human  multitude  the  inspiration  of 
prophets  and  the  intoxication  of  the  crowd. 

Winter  came  on,  by  turns  windy  as  March,  wet  as 
April,  warm  as  May,  but  always  freighted  with  flowers 
and  fruits  in  place  of  ice  and  snow.  The  Castletons, 
in  their  rounds  of  social  activity,  were  far  from  over 
taxed;  the  Durels,  in  theirs,  still  paid  the  bulk  of  their 
social  tax  below  "Can-al"  Street,  and  nothing  again 
brought  the  trios  quite  together. 

The  nearest  approach  of  any  two  of  them  occurred 
thrice — and  thrice  again — on  the  most  historic  side  of 
that  most  historic  spot  in  the  Mississippi  Valley,  Jack 
son  Square,  the  city's  old  Place  d'Armes.  There  at 
early  evening  of  Saturdays  if  not  oftener,  Philip,  soli 
tarily  wandering,  entered  the  old  Cabildo  and  sped  up 
its  ancient  stair  into  the  rooms  of  the  Historical  Society 
on  some  real  enough  errand  of  research,  but  soon  re 
turned  more  meditatively  down  and,  as  if  on  the  spur 

121 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

of  the  moment,  crossed  the  adjoining  flagged  alley, 
passed  into  the  unlighted  cathedral  and  took  the  near 
est  pew.  There,  at  times  alone,  at  times  among  more 
genuinely  chance  listeners,  while  distant  Canal  Street 
and  its  tributaries  noisily  drank  their  own  wonder,  he 
drank  the  rehearsings  of  the  unseen,  overhead  choir, 
one  supreme  voice  of  which  was  to  him  the  call  of  the 
poet's  blessed  damosel  from  heaven's  battlements. 

Yet  he  was  always  first  out  of  the  church  and  earliest 
to  vanish  in  the  gloom  of  the  squalid  old  streets  lying 
round  about  as  fast  asleep  as  the  Orleans  princes  whose 
names  they  bear.  One  evening,  in  the  middle  of  the 
singing,  an  old  negro  woman  came  among  the  listeners 
and  sat  near  enough  for  him  to  observe  her  extreme 
neatness,  though  without  seeing  that  she  took  note  of 
him.  In  a  minute  her  place  was  empty  again.  To 
him  a  stranger,  he  was  not  so  to  her,  for  she  was  that 
"sizter  to  the  wife  of  Ovide,"  who  "sinze  long  time" 
had  been  a  domestic  in  the  Durel  household  and  at 
that  moment  was  Rosalie's  escort. 

So  thereafter  Rosalie  knew  but  sang  no  worse  for 
knowing,  and  Philip  continued  to  come  but  also  to 
vanish  before  she  and  her  duenna  could  ever  trip  down 
and  out  and  motor  away.  And  grand 'mere  knew,  but 
said  nothing  even  to  Rosalie  save  in  that  serene  word 
less  way  so  adequate  to  them.  But  one  night,  at  that 
St.  Peter  Street,  "Veau-qui-tette  Cafe"  corner  just 
above  the  Cabildo,  a  quiet  voice  said:  "Well,  Phil?" 

Composedly  talking — of  anything  but  the  reason  of 
this  intrusion — the  judge  and  he  walked  up  by  Ovide's 

122 


BUT  LOVE  CAN  LIVE  ON  LOVE 

closed  shop  and  to  and  around  a  square  once  full  of 
historic  remains,  now  wholly  covered  by  the  State's 
and  city's  marble  court-house,  which,  as  they  passed, 
towered  out  of  its  black  surroundings  white  and  stately 
in  the  moonlight.  But  as  they  turned  from  it  up  Royal 
Street  the  judge  chose  to  say  that  he  had  come 
prompted  by  thought  of  the  perils  of  traversing  these 
narrow,  lonely  streets  by  night. 

"So  you  risked  them  yourself ,"  laughed  Philip. 

"Oh/7  the  judge  as  playfully  replied,  "I  risked  noth 
ing  but  the  ordinary  hold-up.  I'm  no  grand  juryman." 

"  Pooh !  you're  a  lot  more.  Anyway,  there's  nothing 
out  of  the  common  before  the  grand  jury  just  now." 

The  two  moved  on  in  silence  and  as  they  passed 
through  the  tawdry  night  splendors  of  Canal  and  St. 
Charles  Streets  something  prompted  one  thought  to 
both  men.  "Zephire  Durel,"  said  the  judge,  "lives 
just  behind  the  cathedral,  does  he  not,  in  Orleans 
Street?" 

"Yes.    What  of  it?" 

"Think  he's  never  seen  you  there,  or  watched  for 
you?" 

"No.  Oh,  no,  after  all  he's  a  gentleman — of  his 
kind;  not  Creole  kind,  just  his  kind.  If  he  ever  wants 
anything  of  me  he'll  say  it  to  my  face." 

"I  think  so.  But  Ovide — his  shop  was  still  open  as 
I  passed  down — tells  me  Zephire  knows  where  you  are 
every  Saturday  evening,  but  is  preoccupied  with 
others." 

"  Sensible  Zephire !    Whereabouts  ?  " 
123 


LOVERS  OP  LOUISIANA 

"Oh,  t'other  end  of  Orleans  Street,  in  a  regular  Sat 
urday-night  festivity  where  a  former  flame  of  his " 

"  Philomele  ?    Clairvoyante  ? 

"Yes — is  humbly  content  to  be  the  leading  chaperon 
while  he's  the  beau  of  the  ball." 

"How  should  Ovide  know  all  that?" 

"By  trying  to  get  a  young  quadroon  girl,  their  dupe, 
Ovide's  kin,  away  from  them." 

The  walk  continued.  The  homeward  path  was  long, 
but  the  air  was  balmy,  the  moon  was  high,  and  the 
two  comrades  were  in  the  dearest  company  fate  could 
allow  them.  By  and  by  Philip  spoke  abruptly:  "We 
believe,  don't  we,  as  devoutly  as  any  Durel,  in  safe 
guarding  racial  purity?" 

"  Of  course  we  do.    What  of  it  ?  " 

"Are  we,  our  people,  by  our  present  passionately 
upheld  methods,  doing  that  effectively,  righteously,  or 
even  decently?" 

"You're  thinking,  I  suppose,  of  those  two " 

"No,  sir,  I'm  thinking  of  millions.  I'm  not  thinking 
of  the  cruel  temptations  those  methods  thrust  upon 
the  sort  of  girl  Zephire's  trying  to  devour,  and  Ovide 
to  save.  I'm  thinking  of  the  grinding  humiliations 
thrust  upon  her  kin,  who  dare  not,  on  their  lives,  de 
fend  her  as  any  kinsman  would  be  honored  for  doing  if 
she,  however  forlorn  a  fool,  were  only  white."  The 
words  ran  on,  their  warmth  rising  as  though  the  judge 
were  contradicting. 

He  tried  to  break  in,  but  Philip  would  not  be 
stopped.  "Yes,  oh,  yes,  it's  'academic,'  in  this  day 

124 


BUT  LOVE  CAN  LIVE  ON  LOVE 

of  colossal  horrors.  To  a  world  in  physical  agony,  it's 
'academic/  It's  not  academic  to  Ovide,  I  reckon,  sir. 
To  him  it's  the  bow  of  the  yoke  we  hold  on  ten  millions 
of  his  race,  calling  that  yoke  an  absolute  essential  of 
our  daily  safety." 

The  judge  tried  the  salve  of  concession.  "It's  not. 
essential.  It  is  itself  a  peril  and  a  shame  if  only  for 
the  way  it  warps  our  sense  of  justice  and  honor.  But 
why ?" 

Philip  started  again:  "Thank  you  for  that  word, 
though  it's  for  that,  you  know,  that  we're  not  wanted 
under  any  Durel's  roof,  even  Zephire's.  It  proves  us 
'in  love  with  the  negro/  Why,  sir,"  he  laughed,  "I'm 
that  far  from  being  so  that  I  can't  divine  why  he  was 
ever  put  on  the  earth.  He  can't  himself — says  he 
can't !  But  he's  here  and  if  we  ill-treat  him  the  shame 
and  the  peril  of  doing  so,  though  he  should  never  strike 
back,  is  mainly  ours.". 

"Civilization  and  progress  being  mainly  ours,"  as 
sented  the  judge.  "But,  Phil,  why  should  you  and 
I ?" 

"Yes,  civilization  !  What  lessons  that  frightful  war 
over  yonder  is  hurling  at  us !  Here's  our  whole  nation 
debating  'unpreparedness.'  I  tell  you,  for  a  people, 
armed  or  unarmed,  not  to  keep  their  hearts  fortified 
with  clear,  true  principles  of  justice  and  magnanimity 
is  of  all  conceivable  unpreparedness  the  worst.  Prin 
ciples  can't  be  made  overnight  and  put  on  next  day  at 
a  call  to  arms ! " 

The  judge  smiled  yet  more.  "True,  Phil;  but  why 
125 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

say  all  this  to  me  here,  to-night  ?  You  don't  always  go 
to  the  cathedral  loaded  with  this,  do  you?" 

"Yes!  My  dear  sir,  yes!  Yearning  to  say  it  to 
her!" 

"But  you  don't  say  it.    You  unload  on  me." 

"I  shall  say  it  yet.  My  chance  will  come.  I'll  not 
force  it.  By  some  God-sent  accident,  in  broad  day, 
under  His  unforbidden  roof,  the  open  sky,  I'll  have  my 
hour." 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  hope  you  may.  But  you'll  not 
choose  your  theme;  she'll  do  that." 

At  Philip's  gesture  the  two  halted.  "Judge,  you 
know  it  isn't  because  of  her  beauty  of  face,  form,  or 
voice  that  I  can't  take  no  for  an  answer.  You  know 
it's  her  white-flamed  passion  for  beauty  in  things  not 
herself,  and  for  all  loveliness  and  truth,  certainly  not 
excepting  public  justice  or  human  kindness.  You  see 
how  she's  worshipped  by  all  nearest  about  her — family, 
friends,  servants,  little  children,  even  rival  beauties 
and  their  mothers.  Can  you  think  she  wouldn't  hear 
me?  Or,  hearing,  wouldn't  honor  me?"  The  pair 
walked  on. 

Down  in  Esplanade  Avenue  Mme.  Durel  and  her 
son  came  home  from  a  bridge-party,  mounted  the  stair, 
and  said  good  night.  She  tapped  at  a  chamber-door 
and  a  voice  invited  her  in.  Rosalie  came  to  her  slowly 
from  a  moonlit  window.  The  two  caressed  each  other's 
shoulders.  Rosalie  bowed  her  head.  Grand 'mere  kissed 
it,  and  the  girl  sank  to  her  knees,  weeping  bitterly. 


126 


XXI 

AND  A  GOD-SENT  ACCIDENT  OR  TWO 

WELL,  one  day  it  actually  happened. 

Somewhere  up  the  Mississippi  a  certain  Dane — or 
Swede — fresh  from  his  own  land,  but  speaking  English, 
had  encountered  Mr.  Murray  and  received  from  him 
a  line  of  introduction  to  the  judge  and  Philip. 

Philip  had  tried  to  make  New  Orleans  attractive  to 
this  stranger  historically,  but  his  sluggish  interest  was 
wholly  modern  and  commercial;  his  one  wish  was  to  be 
shown  the  harbor,  particularly  its  new  docks,  and  grain 
and  cotton-shipping  facilities,  and  to  that  end  the  three 
had  made  an  appointment. 

The  afternoon  was  soft  and  bright.  Except  that 
ancient  square  then  newly  occupied  by  the  great  white 
hall  of  justice  already  mentioned  as  having  blotted  out 
so  many  relics  of  history  and  romance  in  the  midst  of 
the  old  Creole  quarter,  no  spot  near  the  heart  of  the 
city  had  thus  far  been  so  radically  modernized  and 
stripped  of  the  picturesque  as  had  the  steamboat-land 
ing.  So,  at  any  rate,  Philip  and  the  judge  had  warned 
their  stolid  traveller.  Its  former  hurly-burly  of  action, 
sound,  wind,  sunlight,  and  color,  they  said,  its  confu 
sion  of  tongues,  of  freights,  was  well-nigh  gone.  Its 
commercial  war-dance  had  tamed  down  to  the  meek 
emaciation  of  an  old  ox  turned  out  to  die.  The  mag- 

127 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

nified  city's  magnified  trade  was  divorced  from  the 
boats  and  married  to  the  railroads.  The  wharfs,  where 
the  beautiful  old  side-wheel  steamers — the  Natchez, 
the  Lee,  the  Votaress,  Paragon,  Enchantress — could  get 
only  their  cutwaters  in  and  unload  and  reload  across 
their  bows,  stood  now  deserted. 

There,  regularly  twice  a  day,  from  a  point  near  the 
head  of  Poydras  Street,  a  melancholy  stern-wheeler 
made  a  circuit  of  the  harbor  to  show  it  to  a  few,  gen 
erally  a  very  few,  sightseers.  At  brief  intervals  for  an 
hour  before  she  went  her  woebegone  voice  bellowed  its 
invitation  imploringly  down  into  the  city.  Residents 
seldom  heeded  it,  and  this  time  the  two  Castletons 
would  not  have  noticed  it  but  for  their  appointment 
— to  meet  the  Scandinavian — at  the  boat's  gangway. 
They  were  barely  in  time.  She  backed  out  as  they 
crossed  her  gang-plank.  Yet  neither  on  the  wharf 
nor  her  guards  did  they  espy  their  stranger.  Instead 
they  discovered  that  there  were  two  see-the-harbor 
boats.  The  other  was  still  at  her  wharf,  farther  below, 
beyond  the  Canal  Street  ferry.  The  traveller  was 
probably  there,  awaiting  them.  Now  she  dolefully 
mooed,  as  if  specially  for  the  Castletons.  Their  boat 
went  by  her,  down-stream,  and  before  they  had  got 
abreast  the  cathedral  and  Jackson  Square  Philip's 
prayed-for  accident  occurred. 

An  hour  or  two  earlier  Mme.  Durel  and  Rosalie  had 
been  doing  errands  in  the  fashionable  shopping  district 
about  Canal  Street.  In  Royal  Street  they  had  left 
with  a  mender  of  fine  china,  for  repair,  a  large  and 

128 


AND  A  GOD-SENT  ACCIDENT  OR  TWO 

costly  bowl  which  their  old  negro  maid  servant,  so 
often  Rosalie's  attendant,  had  brought  along.  Later 
they  had  lunched  at  Antoine's,  but  when  they  might 
have  resumed  their  shopping  Rosalie  had  no  heart  for 
it.  She  had  come  from  home  because  home  was  so 
intolerably  quiet,  and  now  the  shops  and  department 
stores  were  intolerable  for  their  commotion  and  at 
every  few  steps  one  met  friends  and  had  to  talk  and 
give  account  of  one's  health. 

Then  madame  remembered  "sinze  how  very  long" 
she  had  suffered  for  wrant  of  a  penknife  and  that  the 
best  place  to  get  one  was  in  Canal  Street  near  the  river 
and  quite  away  from  the  crowd.  Past  there  ran 
street-cars  that  would  take  them  along  the  river-front, 
by  the  cathedral,  into  Esplanade  Avenue  and  to  their 
own  door.  As  they  went  Rosalie  threw  off  half  her 
listlessness.  Anything  out  of  the  daily  routine  was 
better  than  anything  in  it,  and  to  go  somewhere,  any 
where,  off  the  daily  path,  was  better  than  the  path. 
They  had  got  the  penknife  and  were  about  to  hail  the 
car  when  Rosalie,  preferring  any  distant  sight  to  any 
near  one,  noticed  the  Canal  Street  ferry-boat  sidling 
up  to  its  wharf.  New  Orleans  people  had  an  old 
custom  of  mitigating  hot  summer  afternoons  by  con 
tinuous  round  trips  over  the  ferries.  Besides  this  ferry 
there  were  four  up-town  and  two  or  three  down-town. 
On  the  one  at  Esplanade  Avenue  the  Durels  had  often 
given  themselves  this  mild  indulgence. 

"Mere!"  said  the  girl,  "month  January,  air  June, 
and  with  Euphrosine "s— that  was  their  attendant — "a 

129 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

ferry-trip — come !"  The  levee  there  is  broad;  only  by 
haste  and  luck  could  they  be  in  time.  Her  pulse  quick 
ened.  She  led  the  way.  They  went  Indian  file. 

"The  millionth  chance!"  she  said  in  her  heart,  as 
she  had  been  saying  at  every  turn  and  hour  for  weeks. 
"Heaven  knows  if  by  a  millionth  chance  he  may  be 
there!" 

The  distant  ferry-bell  tapped;  they  went  faster. 
But  a  freight-train  crawled  across  their  path,  intermina 
bly  cluck-cluck-clucking,  until  L.  &  N.,  C.  B.  &  Q., 
L.  S.  &  M.  S.,  and  a  dozen  other  symbols  of  the  big 
world's  work  became  terms  of  dumb  exasperation.  At 
last  the  passing  caboose  left  the  way  open  and  they 
hurried  on;  but  the  ferry  tapped  good-by  and  they 
stopped  short  again  in  the  dusty  sunshine,  while  old 
Euphrosine  exclaimed  in  tragic  despair:  "Ding,  dong, 
bell,  kitty's  in  de  well!" 

The  ferry-boat  swung  out  and  shuffled  away  for  the 
"Algiers"  shore,  and  then  what  should  fill  the  ear  but 
the  call  of  the  Poydras  street  harbor  excursion-boat  in 
agony  for  passengers.  "Mere!"  cried  Rosalie  in  the 
midst  of  the  din,  "Trancadillo!  the  billow,  billow!" 

"Oui!"  laughed  madame,  "en  avant,  grenadiers!" 
and  soon  they  were  on  board  and  mounting  from  deck 
to  deck.  They  found  chairs  on  the  hurricane-roof,  at 
the  outer  side  of  the  texas,  where  they  could  see  across 
the  river,  into  "Algiers,"  and  had  just  sat  down  when 
close  overhead  roared  the  boat's  last  wail  for  more  of 
such  freight. 

Two  men  came,  belated.  The  ladies  did  not  see 
130 


AND  A  GOD-SENT  ACCIDENT  OR  TWO 

them,  but  heard  a  passenger  tell  how  the  boat  had 
begun  to  back  out  when  they  crossed  the  gang-plank. 
Now  she  headed  down  the  river,  and  the  ladies  and 
Euphrosine  stood  boldly  on  the  skylight-roof  and 
looked  across  into  the  city;  the  city  so  wonderfully 
grown,  so  storied,  so  proudly  loved.  There,  presently, 
was  Canal  Street,  in  full  length  and  breadth,  so  fondly 
prized  yet  so  gladly  escaped  from;  and  now  it  was 
gone.  Here  came  Jackson  Square  and  the  dear  old 
cathedral.  But  also,  behind  the  onlookers,  on  the 
deck,  came  quiet  footsteps,  and  two  refined  male 
voices  which,  for  all  their  composure,  strung  higher 
every  nerve  in  Rosalie's  frame.  Her  heart  had  barel> 
time  to  miss  a  beat  when  Philip  stood  before  her. 

A  single  look  from  each  upon  the  other  told  that  each 
had  suffered,  but  the  one  gleam  of  joy  which  illumined 
her  word  of  salutation  sweetened  all  bygone  heartache. 

As  if  purely  for  the  mirth  of  it  the  two  men  began 
to  explain,  each  to  his  own  hearer,  how  they  happened 
to  be  aboard;  and  then,  purely  for  the  mirth  of  it,  of 
course,  the  Durels  told  the  story  of  the  ferry-boat  and 
the  train.  To  say  they  did  so  is  enough  and  safest;  to 
try  to  tell  how  it  was  told  would  be  trying  to  handle  a 
soap-bubble.  Not  once  only  to  the  judge,  that  earlier 
night,  returning  from  the  cathedral,  but  again  and 
again  to  himself,  Philip  had  said  that  the  spring  of  his 
worship  of  Rosalie  was  not  her  loveliness  to  the  mere 
eye  or  ear,  but  her  passion  for  truth,  beauty,  and  glad 
ness,  and  her  power  to  find  them  in  other  beings  and 
in  things  beyond  herself.  Yet  now,  asking  his  own 

131 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

mind  how  one  was  to  divide  the  inner  charm  from  the 
outer,  he  was  loftily  glad  to  get  no  reply.  His  joy 
showed  so  plainly  that  because  of  strangers'  glances 
she  hastened  to  finish: 

"And  now  you  shall  show  us  the  harbor." 
But  largely  it  was  she  who  showed  it  to  him.  Or  so 
he  thought,  and  in  the  showing  of  it  two  or  three  sim 
ple  causes  quite  unnoted  by  him  worked  in  her  a  new 
charm  on  his  heart.  One  was  the  hidden  rapture  of 
reunion  with  him;  another  was  a  certain  jealousy  for 
the  scene,  the  region,  its  whole  civic  scheme,  stirred 
by  a  fear  of  his  disparagements;  and  a  third  was  a  gen 
tle  intolerance  of  that  touch  of  bookishness  which  his 
critics  imputed  to  even  his  liveliest  appreciations.  He 
knew  the  harbor  historically;  the  historic  meanings  of 
its  names,  places,  structures,  enterprises.  He  told  the 
romance  of  them  wherever  they  had  dropped  out  of 
the  present  and  joined  themselves  to  the  past.  And  in 
all  those  she  evinced  an  interest  warm  and  bright. 
But  over  and  above  it  she  caught  arid  pointed  out, 
again  and  again,  just  that  which  he  would  so  much 
rather  have  shown  her  and  taught  her  to  appreciate: 
The  poetry  of  things  in  their  present  values — and  pres 
ent  grime;  dry-docks,  elevators,  sugar-refineries,  rice- 
mills,  foundries,  shipyards,  railroad-sheds,  coal-fleets, 
and  the  men  of  all  sorts  and  shades  in  all  of  them;  the 
romance  of  their  countless  offices  and  movements  in 
the  vast  machinery  of  a  daily  ongoing  world. 

Sweet  indeed  to  a  lover  was  the  marvel  of  the  Creole 
girl.    This  gift  of  vision  she  might  have  had  without 

132 


AND  A  GOD-SENT  ACCIDENT  OR  TWO 

being  a  Creole,  but  she  was  doubly  sweet  and  marvel 
lous  through  the  perfect  simplicity  of  speech  and  Gallic 
unconsciousness  with  which  she  radiated  its  charm. 
If  love  told  him  truly,  she  wore  the  gift  like  a  silken 
drapery,  a  texture  as  much  of  smiles  and  happy  sighs 
as  of  words,  that  never  gathered  the  weight  of  one 
rounded  period.  Oh,  for  half  such  grace  in  himself,  to 
inspire  younger  manhood  on  college  benches,  or  older 
manhood  in  the  street.  Unknowingly,  that  fair  after 
noon,  whatever  she  may  have  been  besides,  she  was 
his  tutoress. 

Down  by  the  old  British  battle-ground  they  rounded 
to  and  reascended  the  yellow  flood,  past  again  the 
Vieux  Carre  and  the  steamboat-landings,  and  went  on 
through  the  harbor's  bends,  turning  back  at  length  in 
the  swirling  eddies  of  Nine-Mile  Point.  On  water  or 
land  there  were  almost  as  few  signs  of  midwinter  as  in 
their  own  hearts.  The  lofty  cypresses  of  the  swamps 
were  naked,  jagged,  funereal,  gibbet-like  in  their  drap- 
ings  of  gray  moss;  but  the  swamps  were  always  far 
away,  and  in  between,  about  all  habitations,  the  few 
trees  that  stood  bare  were  hardly  to  be  noted  amid  the 
dark  masses  of  evergreen  magnolias,  cedars,  and  live- 
oaks;  and  the  levees,  fields,  and  gardens  were  green. 
The  pair  stood  at  the  front  edge  of  the  hurricane-deck, 
madame  and  the  judge  sitting  and  old  Euphrosine 
standing  a  few  steps  at  their  back,  when  Rosalie  broke 
a  silence.  "But  why,"  she  said,  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand  across  the  landscape,  "why  do  I  love  this  the 
best  in  all  the  world?" 

133 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Philip  tried  to  tell;  tried  smilingly — without  the  aca 
demic  touch,  the  bookish  mustiness,  but  with  thfc, 
sweetness  of  human  fellowship  and  social  attachment 
— to  define  in  brief  the  true  patriotism.  He  had  hardly 
more  than  begun  it  before  Rosalie  most  willingly  saw 
that  it  was  his  personal  rejoinder  to  the  disdain  of 
those  by  whom  she  was  constantly  surrounded.  It 
allowed  the  true  patriotism  a  special  intensity  nearest 
home,  but  required  of  it  also  a  scope  as  universal  as 
humanity,  and  a  sense  of  incalculable  personal  indebt 
edness,  beginning  at  home  but  extending  to  all  civiliza 
tion,  and  as  old  as  history.  He  deprecated  that  love 
of  country  which  is  mere  pride  of  country,  that  national 
complacency  which  is  only  self-esteem  swollen  to  na 
tional  dimensions;  and  he  exalted  the  patriotism  whose 
ardor  demands  of  one's  country  that  same  integrity  to 
all  the  human  race  which  his  mother  country  requires 
of  him  to  her. 

There  Rosalie  thrust  in  the  name  of  Zephire.  At 
the  same  time  she  mentioned  her  father,  the  like-minded 
attitude  of  the  two  men  on  public  questions,  and  the 
personal  harmony  which  it  promoted  between  them. 
While  Philip  asked  himself  why  she  thus  spoke  she 
contrived  to  put  a  tone  of  relevancy  into  a  medi 
tative  expression  of  filial  devotion  to  the  widowed 
parent,  adding  the  significant  remark  that  whatever 
her  father  could  not  live  with  happily  she  could 
never  consent  to  live  with  at  all.  Then,  as  if  flit 
ting  from  one  subject  to  quite  another,  she  recounted 
what  Zephire  had  told  her  father  of  Philip's  sayings 

134 


AND  A  GOD-SENT  ACCIDENT  OR  TWO 

and  doings  in  0 vide's  shop  and  at  the  missionary 
college. 

Both  girl  and  lover  found  much  amusement  in  the 
explanations  he  gave  of  acts,  facts,  words,  and  mean 
ings;  but  both  fell  grave  again  over  his  elaborate  ex- 
cusings  of  Zephire's  misinterpretations  of  him,  which 
he  imputed  to  the  cashier's  devotion  to  public  safety 
and  honor  and  to  the  happiness  of  those  endeared  to 
him  by  kinship. 

"Ah,  kinship!"  said  Rosalie.  "I  am  afraid  of  the 
kinship  of  Zephire  and  papa.  Tell  me,  you — I  can 
ask  nobody  else — what  is  your  opinion  of  my  cousin 
Zephire?" 

"Oh!"  Philip  caught  his  breath.  "Oh!  my  opinion  of 
him  " — he  managed  to  smile — "  ought  not  to  guide  you." 

"I  think  it  should.  And  I  believe  you  ought  to  tell 
me  that."  She  dropped  her  gaze  to  the  farthest  deck 
below,  where  there  was  least  to  see.  "Because  when 
you  don't  tell  me  that,  and  maybe  pretty  soon  some 
bad  luck  comes  to  me  because  you  didn't  tell  me,  I 
think  maybe  afterward  you'll  be  regretful  you  didn't 
tell  me." 

As  plain  as  the  river's  bend  which  they  were  round 
ing  and  which  brought  the  great  city's  centre  into  near 
view,  seemed  to  Philip  this  great  bend  in  his  heart's 
desperate  fortunes.  He  dared  not  call  the  girl's  deeper 
meaning  love  and  choice,  but  his  soul  cried  out  within 
him,  and  every  vein  tingled  in  recognition  of  what  he 
could  call  nothing  less  than  trust.  He  stood  silent 
with  eyes  out  on  the  passing  flood  and  shore,  that  grew 

135 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

every  moment  more  beautiful  under  long  western  sun 
beams,  intensely  conscious  that  no  silence  or  evasion 
could  pay  due  gratitude  to  such  a  questioner.  After  a 
lapse  of  interminable  seconds  he  said  with  a  tight 
throat: 

"Rosalie." 

"Yes?" 

"Your  cousin  is  your  suitor." 

"Yes." 

"And  in  every  beat  of  my  heart  I  am  your  lover." 

Her  gaze  bent  more  intently  on  the  lower  deck. 
"Yes." 

"There  is  one  other  whom  you  can  ask  and  whom, 
whether  I  have  the  slightest  ground  for  hope  or  not, 
I  beg  you,  for  your  own  sake,  to  ask." 

"Who?" 

"The  old  black  woman  yonder  behind  you." 

The  boat  roared  for  her  Poydras  Street  landing.  The 
five  left  it  in  two  groups  and  at  Canal  Street  the  Durels 
boarded  a  car  for  home.  They  might  have  missed 
it  but  for  a  smart  young  Creole,  a  clerk  in  their  own 
bank.  Seeing  them  coming,  he  held  the  car  till  he  could 
pass  them  in.  Their  radiant  thanks  gave  him  such 
elation  that  he  told  Zephire  of  it  next  morning. 

The  cashier  heard  him  through  with  exasperating 
coldness  and  was  tart  to  every  subordinate  for  the  rest 
of  the  day.  On  reaching  his  rooms  he  took  from  his 
hip  a  costly  automatic  pistol,  inspected  its  parts  mi 
nutely,  restored  it  to  his  pocket,  perfumed  a  fresh 
handkerchief  and  went  out  again. 

136 


XXII 
THE  HAWK  STOOPS 

THAT  same  afternoon  of  the  day  following  the  harbor 
trip,  madame,  Rosalie,  and  old  Euphrosine  stood  in 
the  library,  about  to  leave  the  house  on  a  short  errand. 
The  air  was  bracing,  their  motor-car  had  gone  to  bring 
monsieur  home,  they  would  walk.  But  now  a  visitor 
was  announced,  whom,  though  a  merciless  stayer, 
madame  felt  bound  to  see. 

"Go  without  me!"  she  commanded  as  she  left  the 
room,  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  other  two 
were  welcomed  by  Ovide  in  his  shop.  While  Rosalie 
turned  aside,  seemingly  to  bury  her  attention  in  a  lot 
of  old  engravings,  the  servant  began  softly  to  tell  their 
errand. 

"And,"  unexpectedly  put  in  Rosalie  without  looking 
up  from  the  pictures,  "I  must  know  it  all  first-hand." 

After  a  few  words  more  Ovide,  by  a  glass  rear  door 
letting  into  his  living-room,  showed  them  into  the 
company  of  his  wife — as  black  as  he  and  in  silver- 
rimmed  spectacles.  He  remained  in  the  shop.  A  cus 
tomer  or  two  came  and  went.  An  hour  ran  by.  Near 
its  end  the  silver-spectacled  wife,  at  the  glass  door, 
called  him  into  the  feminine  council,  but  he  was  soon 
again  in  the  shop. 

Followed  by  her  attendant,  Rosalie  came  forth  speak- 
137 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

ing  her  parting  phrases  lightly  and  volubly;  but  she 
would  hardly  have  come  at  all  had  she  known  how 
plainly  her  beautiful  face,  her  every  high-spirited 
glance,  betrayed  the  distress  left  in  it  by  the  revelation 
from  which  she  was  taking  flight.  A  few  yards  from 
the  shop,  on  the  sidewalk,  her  escort  pressed  near  with 
a  soft  question: 

"Momselle,  d'd  you  take  notice  who  wuz  dat  come 
into  de  shop  same  time  we  'uz  a-comin'  out?" 

"No.    I  didn't  see  anybody." 

"  T'uz  de  young  Mr.  Castlemun.  He — Lawd  ! — 
don'  look  'cross  de  street !  Here  come'  Miche  Zephire ! " 

With  much  show  of  animation  Zephire  crossed  over. 
"  Good  evening ! "  he  said.  "I'll  make  you  a  bet  you've 
juz'  been  where  I'm  going;  ad  the  shop  of  Landry!" 
Even  before  he  spoke  he  had  read  behind  Rosalie's 
smiling  eyes  high  desperation  and  swift  thought. 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  are  mistaken.  You  are 
not  going  there.  You  are  coming  with  me.  In  Bour 
bon  Street  Euphrosine  is  leaving  me  and  I  don't  want 
to  walk  home  alone,  neither  to  ride." 

Instantly  he  thought.     "Yes,  he  was  there  with  her !  \ 
She  is  keeping  me  to  let  him  get  away."    Yet,  much 
flattered,  he  gallantly  said:  "Ah,  w'at  a  temptation! 
But  I've  promiz'  Landry,  an'  a  promiz',  you  know — 
He  began  to  back  off  up  the  sidewalk.     "I  tell  you! 
Walk  slow!    I'llritturn!" 

She  affected  an  arch  unbelief.  "No;  you,  you'll  take 
your  time — and  I  the  street-car." 

Through  one  of  those  quaint  alleys  next  the  cathedral 
138 


THE  HAWK  STOOPS 

— Philip's  alley,  as  we  might  say — and  around  a  corner 
of  Pere  Antoine's  Garden,  she  and  the  old  woman  en 
tered  Orleans  Street.  Once  the  centre  of  fashion,  it 
was  now  as  quiet  as  a  country  lane.  Just  across  the 
way  from  a  heavy  building  of  many  arches,  that  a 
hundred  years  before  had  been  a  theatre,  but  had  be 
come  a  convent  of  negro  nuns,  a  shabby  Italian  woman 
gave  Rosalie  a  quick  second  glance  at  both  face  and 
form,  not  so  much  for  their  beauty  as  their  air  of  pur 
pose.  In  the  square  next  beyond,  over  on  the  con 
vent  side,  was  the  house  where  Philip  had  called  on 
Zephire.  As  Rosalie  began  to  pass  it  old  Euphrosine 
murmured : 

"Yondeh  de  place,  Miss  Rose.  Da's  her." 
On  its  upper  balcony,  out  over  the  sidewalk,  a  pretty 
quadroon  girl  sat  embroidering.  When  the  old  woman 
cheerily  bowed  to  her  she  went  in.  Rosalie  hur 
riedly  led  on  toward  Congo  Square,  into  Rampart 
Street  and  to  her  home. 

Zephire  found  Philip  and  Ovide  in  the  book-shop,  de 
bating  some  matter  in  one  of  the  scrap-books,  held  open 
between  them.  He  let  Philip  speak  first,  yet  responded 
with  buoyant  courtesy,  and  added  a  comment  on  the 
weather.  "But  you  are  too  busy  to  notiz'  that,  I 
su'pose,  eh?" 

Philip  smiled.     "I'm  not  so  killing  busy  as  that." 

"No?  Whiles  deliv'ring  all  those  lectures  an' 
spitches?  And  with  gran'  jury  to  boot?" 

"Oh,  grand  jury's  only  once  a  week." 
139 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"'Twould  have  to  be  mo'  h-often  to  do  one  thing." 

"What?    To  round  up  all  the  lawbreakers?" 

"No,  sir !  But  to  catch  even  one  of  those  damn* 
sneak'  what  ain't  got  the  spunk  to  break  the  law! 
Eh?"  Swifter  than  his  words,  a  pair  of  dilated  eyes 
silently  added:  "That  means  you  !"  But  instantly  he 
had  forced  a  laugh  and  resumed  his  urbanity. 

"You  know,  I  'ad  the  honor  to  hear  yo'  moze  elo 
quent  addrezz  ad  thad  nigger  college.  Thad  was  a 
very  surprising  to  me,  thad  addrezz.  Yes,  sir,  I've 
been  rif -fleeting  it  ever  sinze;  an'  the  mo'  I  rif-flec' 
that,  the  mo'  I  fine  it  a  wonderful.  Yes,  sir;  that  any 
man  with  the  faintez'  instinc'  of  a  gentleman  could  be 
such  a  dog,  to  ap-olo-gize  to  niggers  for  being  a  white 
man." 

Ovide  stepped  closer.  Philip,  red,  motionless,  deep- 
voiced,  said :  "  If  I  thought  you  really  wanted  that  ex 
plained  I  could  easily  explain  it." 

The  accuser's  voice  rose:  "I  'ave  egxplain'  it  myseff, 
sir!"  He  shook  his  finger:  "You  know  tha'z  a  per 
sonal  insult  to  any  white  man  what  hear'  it,  an'  you 
aim'  that  insult  straight  at  me ! " 

With  a  note  of  expostulation  Ovide  stepped  between 
the  two.  The  old  woman  in  silver-bowed  spectacles 
appeared  in  the  rear  door.  The  Creole  backed  away 
saying:  "Philip  Cazzleton,  if  you  wasn'  a  sneak  an'  a 
coward  you  would  challenge  me.  But  I'll  supply  you 
that  omission.  You'll  hear  from  me  through  a  frien' ! " 
So  he  departed. 

The  old  woman  cried  after  him  from  her  door:  "Oh, 
140 


THE  HAWK  STOOPS 

you!  De  good  God  is  long-suffhV,  yit  yo* — time — 
will — come ! " 

A  few  minutes  later  a  boy  from  the  nearest  phar 
macy  informed  her  that  she  was  wanted  at  the  tele 
phone.  Soon  she  had  gone  and  returned.  "Yass," 
she  said,  "'t'uz  Madame  Jurel;  her  an'  momselle  done 
snuf  de  fox's  trail." 

Ovide  showed  concern:  "What  did  you  tell  them?" 

"Small  pickings.  Leas'  said  sooness  mended. 
'Nothin'  broke'/  s's  I,  Til  be  'roun'  early  in  de 
mawnin'.'" 

In  the  evening  of  the  next  day  Philip,  while  his  aunt 
sat  reading,  passed  the  judge  a  missive  which  the  lat 
ter,  after  scanning,  retained. 

"Can  you  arrange  that,  sir?"  Philip  asked. 

"Certainly."  It  was  Zephire's  challenge,  handed 
Philip  by  Mr.  Swift,  the  much-envied  cotton-specu 
lator,  not  all  of  whose  money  had  been  made  in  cot 
ton.  On  the  following  morning  the  judge  and  Mr. 
Swift  conferred  together. 


141 


XXIII 
BUT  A  DOVE  ROBS  THE  HAWK 

"My — DEAR — Judge !"  was  one  of  Mr.  Swift's  affec 
tionate  protestations,  "I'd  be  powerful  glad  to  stop 
this  thing  if  it  can  be  stopped,  for  my  own  personal 
reasons." 

"Would  it  be  fair  to  ask  what  those  are?" 
"Oh,  fair,  yes.  Yet  I'd  rather  tell  you  later." 
While  this  was  being  said,  and  while  Zephire  sat 
busy  at  his  desk  in  the  bank,  with  its  president  occu 
pied  in  the  back  office,  old  Euphrosine,  down  in  Or 
leans  Street,  rang  Zephire's  door-bell.  The  quadroon 
girl  peeped  out  warily,  timorously  parleyed,  and  pres 
ently  let  her  in.  Then  for  an  hour  nothing  occurred 
there  in  view  from  the  street;  but  inside,  toward  the 
hour's  end,  the  old  woman  did  much  telephoning,  the 
girl  standing  by,  quaking  and  tearfully  wringing  her 
hands. 

At  the  same  time,  around  in  Bourbon  Street,  Ma 
dame  Durel  sat  bargaining  in  a  milliner's  shop  while 
Rosalie  waited  sufficiently  near  the  entrance  to  keep 
in  sight  a  small  close-covered  spring-wagon  whose 
driver  had  just  drawn  rein  at  the  farther  curb  of  the 
pinched  roadway.  Presently  the  watcher  stepped  to 
the  door. 

Over  beyond  the  vehicle  a  small,  girlish  figure,  well 
142 


BUT  A  DOVE  ROBS  THE  HAWK 

dressed,  but  nervous  and  furtive,  came  up  the  side 
walk.  It  was  the  quadroone  from  Orleans  Street.  Near 
the  wagon  she  slackened  pace;  yet  she  went  almost  by 
it,  then  hovered,  stepped  abruptly  up  to  its  side,  spoke 
to  the  two  negro  nuns  whom  Rosalie  knew  to  be  its 
passengers,  entered  it,  and  was  quietly  borne  away 
up-town. 

With  a  backward  glance  to  madame,  Rosalie  passed 
out  of  the  shop.  Madame  joined  her.  Their  auto 
mobile  came  up,  received  them,  and  at  a  leisurely  dis 
tance  followed  the  wagon.  They  crossed  three  streets, 
made  a  right  turn  into  Canal  and  presently  a  second 
into  Rampart,  downtownward,  loitered  by  Congo 
Square,  and  stopped  at  the  crossing  of  the  old  rue  des 
Ursulines.  Into  it  the  wagon  had  made  its  third  right 
turn  and  they  watched  it  jog  onward  until  at  Chartres 
it  made  its  fourth  and  vanished.  They  were  satisfied  ! 
A  few  jogs  more  would  bring  it  to  the  convent  in  Or 
leans  Street. 

Their  car  moved  on  and  they  were  soon  at  home. 
Half  an  hour  later  another  wagon,  uncovered,  empty, 
came  to  Zephire's  door,  took  in  Euphrosine  and  a 
trunk  and  by  a  short  leftward  circuit  came  around  to 
the  convent.  There  the  trunk  was  delivered.  Eu 
phrosine  walked  home. 

When  Zephire  found  his  nest  empty  he  instantly, 
wrathfully,  laid  the  outrage  on  Philip.  He  thought  of 
Ovide  and  his  wife,  but  to  them  he  could  not  accredit 
the  daring  for  such  a  raid  into  a  white  man's  domain. 
He  thought  of  Philomele,  with  her  still  pretty  eyes  a 

143 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

trifle  too  beady  and  sometimes  too  near  together. 
"Absurdly  jealous"  she  was  and  had  got  him  the  girl 
only  in  pay  for  abig  money"  reluctantly  found  for 
her  with  which  to  lighten  a  desperate  pinch.  But 
Philomele  did  not  fit  into  the  case,  did  not  meet  its 
dramatic  demands,  half  so  precisely  as  did  he,  the 
rival  on  whom  he  had  but  yesterday  heaped  insult 
face  to  face  and  who  had  to-day  vilely  declined  to 
meet  him  on  the  field  of  honor.  He  set  forth  in  quest 
of  him  to  shoot  him  on  sight. 

But  he  had  hardly  reached  Canal  Street  ere  reason 
began  to  whisper  dissuasion,  seduction.  After  all, 
there  was  the  remote  chance  that  the  deed  was  Philo- 
mele's.  Five  minutes  with  her  would  tell  his  match 
less  insight  the  truth.  Her  rooms  were  nearer  by  than 
any  one  not  of  the  police  might  have  surmised;  he 
would  drop  in.  Revenge  could  wait  a  bit;  in  the  kind 
of  heart  he  was  proud  to  call  his,  a  grievance  keeps  like 
sealed  honey. 

In  her  apartment,  over  a  dinner  ordered  up  by  him 
from  a  pension  francaise,  their  interview  was  highly 
emotional.  On  his  way  there  he  had  begun  to  see 
that  this  abduction  had  startlingly  bettered  his  for 
tunes.  Not  since  earliest  manhood  had  he  been,  do 
mestically,  so  disentangled  as  at  this  very  moment; 
so  free  to  marry.  And  marriage  was  thus  made  easy 
just  when  it  had  become  expedient,  imperative.  Im 
perative  for  reasons  known  only  to  him,  pecuniary  rea 
sons,  the  full  force  of  which  it  had  required  the  shock 
of  this  hour  to  bring  clearly  to  view,  so  immersed  had 

144 


BUT  A  DOVE  ROBS  THE  HAWK 

he  gradually  become  in  his  quarrel  with  Philip.  He 
would  reveal  this  imperative  expediency  to  Philomele ! 
She  would  kick,  and  if,  to  dissuade  him,  she  should 
offer  to  restore  the  girl,  he  would  know  she  was  the 
thief. 

He  began  jauntily.  It  was  so  good  a  joke,  he  said, 
that  he  had  come  to  tell  his  still  beautiful  old  Philo 
mele.  "An'  bisside  a  joke,  'tis  a  gran'  piez'  of  luck !" 

She  was  glad.  "  What  ?  The  ship?  Reach'  port  ?  " 
She  meant  no  metaphor;  the  ship  was  a  real  one,  bound 
for  the  Baltic  and  full  of  cotton  in  which,  with  Swift, 
Zephire  held  a  share  under  whose  burden  he  staggered. 

Ship,  no!  No  such  good  news  as  that!  But  all 
the  better  luck  for  want  of  that  good  news.  It  was 
but  this:  Just  as  he  was  at  his  wits'  end  to  know  how 
to  "fire  thad  liT  wench"  she  had  up  and  run  away — 
ho,  ho,  ho ! 

Philomele  leaped  to  her  feet  in  surprise  and  delight. 
Her  hand-clapping  rang  to  the  ceiling.  "Ha,  ha,  ha !" 

"Yes,"  said  her  guest,  "an'  now  I'm  free — juz'  when 
I'm  also  compel' — to  marry ! " 

On  that  word,  that  sky-wide  lightning-flash,  the 
storm  broke.  It  took  him  aback;  a  true  Louisiana 
storm,  with  tears  for  rain,  accusations,  curses  and  de 
fiances  for  cracking  thunder-peals.  She  had  stood 
enough !  Would  stand  no  more !  Would  go  straight 
to  the  bride  and  the  bride's  family  and  tell — every 
thing  ! — if  it  took  a  week  to  do  it ! 

To  ride  out  the  tempest  he  had  to  use  every  resource 
of  cajolery;  had  to  confess  more  than  he  had  ever 

145 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

dreamed  of  breathing  to  mortal  ear.  The  necessity, 
he  tenderly  argued,  had  come  about  through  her, 
Philomele,  and  was  as  truly  her  emergency  as  his.  To 
pull  her  out  of  her  pinch — her  many,  many  pinches — 
and  to  keep  up  his  margin  with  Swift — in  this  venture 
compelled  by  her  needs — had  forced  him,  over  and 
over,  to  make  loans  to  himself  from  certain  assets  not 
his  own.  These  loans  would  presently  shipwreck  his 
fortunes  and  reputation  together  if  that  real  ship  out 
yonder  should  even  be  seriously  delayed  by  the  block- 
aders  of  the  Channel,  or  if  the  girl  he  proposed  to 
marry  should  suddenly  be  given  to — some  one  else. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  need  never  repay  those  loans  if 
he  could  but  make  this  marriage  now.  And  this  he 
could  do  if  his  dear  old  ever-young  Philomele  would 
just  be  sensible  and  see  in  it  her  own  advantage  and 
happiness,  which  should  in  no  degree  or  manner  be 
diminished  thereby. 

It  was  two  in  the  morning  when  he  re-entered  his 
rooms. 


146 


XXIV 
IN  BITTER  AIRS 

ABOUT  a  week  after  Zephire's  mishap  there  came 
one  of  those  mid-January  days  when — as  in  New  Eng 
land  they  say  that  at  such  and  such  points  it  was 
"thirty  below" — they  were  saying  in  New  Orleans  as 
impressively  that  it  was  "below  thirty"  and  that  ice 
had  been  seen ! 

The  gardens  bloomed  on  and  camphor-trees,  la 
burnums,  oaks,  magnolias,  and  palms  spread  above 
them,  low  and  high,  as  green  as  June;  but  the  banana 
shivered  in  its  summer  rags,  and  ladies  shuddered  at 
the  "bitter  air."  In  the  evening  the  Castletons  drew 
near  their  fire  of  soft  coal  in  a  small  open  grate;  the 
Durels  drew  near  theirs. 

Without  visible  sign  the  Creole  three  were  facing 
a  crisis.  In  their  usual  tones  they  spoke  their  usual 
French,  though  now  and  then  some  such  term  as 
"below  thirty"  was  in  English.  As  a  picture  of  do 
mestic  peace  they  might  have  inspired  a  painter;  and 
yet,  despite  their  placid  tones,  the  firelight  glow,  and 
every  appointment  of  comfort,  there  was  an  uncon- 
fessed  winter  inside  the  home. 

By  and  by,  without  preface,  monsieur  handed  Rosa 
lie  a  note.  Madame,  as  it  passed,  saw  the  monogram 
of  Zephire.  Both  women  had  been  expecting  the  mis- 

147 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

sive  for  a  day  or  two.  There  had  been  long  confer 
ences  between  them,  as  also  between  the  father  and 
daughter,  the  father  and  Zephire,  and  the  father  and 
grand'mere.  Rosalie  did  not  at  once  open  the  note. 
Her  manner  was  deliberate.  She  gazed  into  the  fire. 
Yet  as  she  shaded  her  eyes  with  the  missive  it  shook, 
when  she  opened  and  read  it  it  shook  more,  and  when 
she  folded  it  again,  small,  it  still  shook. 

Madame  reached  out,  drew  it  free  and  read  it.  It 
was  Zephire's  request  that  he  be  allowed  to  call  on  a 
special  mission  the  next  afternoon.  Rosalie  spoke, 
looking  into  her  father's  face.  Had  she  looked  away 
while  speaking  it  would  have  been  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life.  "I'd  rather  not  see  him,"  she  said,  "unless 
you  greatly  desire  it." 

"I  greatly  do,"  the  father  replied.  "As  for  what 
you  say  to  him  you  have  your  free  American  choice." 
He  paused  and  she  knew  that  he  was  thinking  in  bitter 
anger,  while  he  knew  she  was  thinking  in  bitter  grief, 
of  another  suitor.  "Zephire  Durel,"  he  resumed,  "we 
may  accept  or  reject;  but  we  must  treat  him  as  his 
name,  at  least,  demands." 

"Yes,"  she  meekly  responded,  and  was  silent  a  full 
minute.  Then  she  said:  "You  have  freely  admitted 
I  believe,  to  'mere,  that  Zephire's  past  life " 

Madame  gently  intervened:  "Ah,  cherie,  you  will 
not  speak  of  such  matters  to  your  father  ?  " 

"Yes.  To  use  my  whole  American  choice  is  not  in 
me;  but  that  much  of  it — I  must." 

The  father's  reply  was  prompt:  "I  freely  admit  what 
148  • 


IN  BITTER  AIRS 

you  have  in  mind.  Zephire  has  as  freely  admitted  it 
to  me.  And  I  answer  you  as  I  have  answered  him; 
that  what  one  has  been  is  far  less  important  than  what 
one  is  going  to  be.  My  child,  since  you  must  know, 
not  in  one  case  among  a  thousand  will  a  young  man's 
private  conduct  bear  high  moral  tests.  The  vital 
question  is,  are  his  missteps  behind  him  or  before? 
Zephire,  at  all  events,  is  no  hypocrite — and  that  is 
rare!"  He  paused,  and  each  knew  again  that  the 
other's  mind  was  on  that  other  one. 

Madame  stirred  to  speak,  but  her  son  lifted  a  hand. 

"Zephire/'  he  resumed,  "did  not  bring  me  that  note 
till  he  could  give  me  his  word  of  honor  that  he  had 
cleaned  up  his  life  as  a  good  ship  is  cleaned  for  a  new 
voyage." 

"Cher  papa,"  asked  Rosalie,  "whose  word  of  honor 
have  you  besides  his  own?" 

The  father  started  sharply.  Then  his  hands  shook 
on  the  arms  of  his  chair.  "My  daughter,"  he  said — 
and  the  only  dry  eyes  there  were  his — "whose  word 
has  disputed,  to  you,  the  word  of  a  Durel?  I  know! 
And  I  must  tell  you  before  you  confront  Zephire  that 
he  whose  word  you  have  so  accepted  is  himself — as 
Zephire  can  tell  you  of  his  own  knowledge — secretly 
living  the  very  life  you  are  imputing  to  Zephire." 

Madame  broke  in :  "  Ah,  no,  no,  no !  I  know  better 
than  that!  I — "  But  at  Rosalie's  touch  she  for 
bore.  She  dashed  the  tears  from  her  cheeks,  but  Rosa 
lie  let  hers  fall  where  they  might  while  she  said: 

"We  need  not  speak  of  that  one;  he  is  dismissed." 
149 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Monsieur  winced  in  open  consternation:  "Dii- 
missed?" 

"From  my — mind.  Yes,  I  cannot  choose  against 
the  will  of  a  father  who  does  not  bid  me  choose  against 
my  own." 

"But,  my  daughter — my  God,  what  will  you  do?" 

"Have  I  not  that  small  inheritance  from — my 
mother?" 

"Assuredly;  in  the  bank,  of  course." 

"To  be  mine  when  I  marry,  or  decide  I  will  not?" 

"Yes,  truly,  but " 

"That  time  is  come.    I  choose  the  lyric  stage." 

The  father  closed  his  eyes,  pressed  his  temples,  rose, 
and  turned  away  shaking  his  head:  "Ah,  my  God,  no, 
Rosalie.  Ah,  no,  my  child.  No,  no,  no !" 

The  daughter  could  not  speak.  Madame  spoke  in 
stead,  raising  her  lovely  shoulders:  "But  what  then, 
my  son?" 

There  was  no  reply.  He  wandered  from  the  room, 
returned  to  the  door,  said,  "Good  night,"  and  passed 
up-stairs. 

The  other  two  lingered  behind,  long,  planning  for 
the  lyric  stage — as  well  as  for  the  next  afternoon. 


150 


XXV 

THE  TRAPPER  IS  TRAPPED 

"Snow  him  into  the  library,"  said  Rosalie  to  Eu- 
phrosine. 

"And  start  the  fire,"  said  madame,  "and  turn  on 
the  light."  The  afternoon  was  darkening  early. 

"I'm  very  pleased  to  see  you!"  said  Rosalie  to  Ze- 
phire,  receiving  him  alone.  Her  mood  had  changed 
over  night.  If  there  was  in  her  pleasure  anything  un 
flattering  it  was  evident  only  by  her  not  speaking 
French.  He  put  that  out  of  mind  and  thanked  her 
elatedly. 

Yet  in  his  light  way  he  felt  the  gravity  of  the  mo 
ment  and  was  free  of  flippancy,  though,  as  he  never 
received  a  compliment  without  inflating  it,  he  said: 
"Tha'z  a  very  pleasing,  that  ladies  are  always  please* 
to  see  me.  It  almoze  rim-unerate'  me  for  staying  so 
long  a  bachelor!" 

He  had  come  primed  to  lead  the  conversation  and 
was  about  to  launch  into  it  in  French  when  she,  bright 
as  May,  interrupted:  "Still,  I  think  you  were  not,  last 
time,  in  Chartres  Street,  so  very  pleased  to  see  me,  eh  ? 
Else  you  would  have  walked  home  with  me,  I  sup 
pose.  You  couldn't  help  that,  eh?  Ah,  I  think  that 
was  a  little  judgment  on  you  that  you  happened  to 

151 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

meet  there  at  Ovide's  somebody  not  very  pleased  to 
meet  you." 

"'Ow  you  heard  abboud  that?" 

"Ah,  is  not  the  wife  of  Ovide  the  sister  of  Euphro- 
sine?  But  you,  tell  me."  The  inquirer  drew  an  inch 
nearer  the  hearth  and  him.  "The  weather  is  getting 
very  cold.  I  am  afraid  that  on  the  way  home  you 
are  going  to  feel  it.  But — tell  me  about  that.  You 
met  there  Mr.  Castleton,  eh?  Tell  me,  Zephire;  be 
cause,  you  know,  we  are  cousins!  What  is  your 
opinion  of  that  gentleman?" 

"Ah,  I  am  distantly  yo'  cousin,  yes;  but — much 


moV 


She  stared  into  the  fire  and  said  pensively:  "Yes." 

"An*  Mr.  Cazzleton,  he  is — he  is  my — "  He  hesi 
tated. 

She  looked  up  abruptly,  roguishly,  and  unutterably 
sweet:  "He  is  your — what?" 

"He  is  my  rival,  Rosalie." 

With  head  gaily  tilted,  wrist  beautifully  arched,  she 
inquiringly  touched  her  bosom. 

He  solemnly  nodded.  She  smilingly  shook  her  head. 
He  drew  nearer :  "  You  assure  me  that  ?  He — is  not  ?  " 

She  gravely  moved  an  inch  away,  still  shaking  her 
head.  "Tell  me — but  not  in  French;  I  wouldn't  like 
that  in  French — tell  me  what  happened  at  Ovide's." 

"I  will  tell  you.  Thad  tranzpire'  by  j'alouzy! 
W'en  a  man  is  j'alouz,  Rosalie,  j'alouz  for  the  woman 
he  love',  only  woman  he  ever  love'  in  his  life,  he  cann* 

he'p  that,  only  if  he's  himseff  a  sneak  an'  a  coward " 

152 


THE  TRAPPER  IS  TRAPPED 

"That's  what  you  called  Mr.  Castleton?" 

"Tha'z  w'at  I  cou'n'  he'p  to  call  him,  Rosalie,  an'  I 
wizh  you  wou'n'  look  away  like  that,  biccause  'twas 
not  alluding  to  you  that  I  call  him  those  epithet'.  I 
di'n'  allude  to  you  at  all.  I  love  too  much  the  ange- 
lique  name  and  honor  of  Rosalie  Durel  to  permit  allu 
sion.  But  I  catch  him  reading,  cheek  an'  cheek,  on 
same  page,  same  time,  with  that  black  Ovide,  an'  'twas 
abbout  his  politic'  that  I  call'  him  those  epithet'." 

"Ah,  yes.    And  'twas  for  that  he  challenged  you?" 

"Challenge  me?    Me,  I  had  to  challenge  him !" 

"And  he  fought  you— I  hope?"  She  fleetingly 
smiled. 

"No,  he  basely  die-line* !  But — ah!  you  are  not 
well?" 

She  narrowed  her  shoulders  in  a  shrug.  "I'm  well 
enough.  He  declined?  But  whether  basely  or  not, 
that  would  depend.  If  he's  got  a  ril-igious  scrupu 
losity " 

Zephire  shook  his  head  regretfully.  "Ah,  chere 
Rosalie,  a  man  w'at  beg  a  nigger  to  forget  he's  a  w'ite 
man,  he's  got,  in  the  heart,  no  ril-igiouz  scrupulo-zity. 
An'  same  time  I've  got  even  mo'  better  proof  aggainz' 
him  than  that.  Will  Rosalie  Durel  do  me  the  honor 
to  permit  me  to  inform  her  thad  proof?" 

She  bowed.  "Tell  me  the  worst  possible.  But — 
wait." 

She  touched  a  wall-button.  "You'll  have  a  cup  of 
tea  with  me?  I'm  fainting  for  some  tea.  Well,  go 


on." 


153 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"I  'ad  a  frien',"  he  began,  but  paused. 

Euphrosine  came  empty-handed  and  set  out  a  low 
tea-table  while  Rosalie  said:  "Yes?  Friend?  Bach 
elor,  eh?" 

"Yes,  bachelor " 

"In  bachelor  apartments,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  he " 

"With  a  housekeeper?" 

"Yes,"  faltered  Zephire,  abashed  at  her  hardihood; 
but  when  he  would  have  labored  on  she  interrupted : 

"And  Mr.  Castleton,  he's  so  fond  of  social  equality 
that  he  took  a  fancy  to  that — "  She  turned  to  the 
servant.  "Please,  Euphrosine,  put  on  the  rest  of  the 
light.  Euphrosine,  I  suppose  the  tea ?" 

"Yass'm,  de  gal's  a-fetchin'  it." 

"I  am  famished  for  a  cup  of  tea,"  said  the  young 
mistress  and  then  resumed  to  Zephire:  "And  Mr. 
Castleton  he ?" 

"He — yes.  Pardon  if  I  'ave  to  tell  you  that. 
He " 

"Ah— wait !  I  don't  like  to  hear  that.  That's  too 
terrible.  He— he— stole  her  ? " 

"He  steal  her  for  himseff." 

"And  he's— got  her ?— yet ?— still ?— now ?" 

"He's  got  her — yet — still — now!" 

"Euphrosine,"  said  Rosalie,  and  as  the  woman,  on 
her  way  out,  paused,  a  young,  petite  quadroon  ap 
peared  with  the  tray  of  refreshments  and  had  nearly 
reached  the  table  when  her  eyes  and  Zephire's,  in  the 
room's  fullest  light,  encountered.  She  was  the  stolen 

154 


THE  TRAPPER  IS  TRAPPED 

girl.  She  halted  transfixed,  fell  to  trembling,  en 
deavored  to  press  on,  stumbled  to  her  knees,  and 
brought  the  loaded  tray,  with  a  jingling  crash,  safely 
to  its  place.  The  three  beholders  darted  to  her  rescue, 
but  instantly  she  was  up  again,  in  flight,  and  with  one 
wild  backward  look  and  a  long,  growing  wail,  glided 
from  the  room. 

Madame  Durel,  who  had  never  been  far  away,  was 
in  the  door  as  the  girl  swept  out.  She  saw  Rosalie 
slip  from  old  Euphrosine's  arms  quietly  into  a  chair, 
laughing  tearfully,  and  then  smilingly  regain  her  feet, 
saying  to  the  speechless  Zephire  as  step  by  step  he 
withdrew : 

"That's  all!  As  the  whiskey  advertisements  say, 
'That's  all' !  For  ever,  ever,  evermore,  that's  all!" 

His  eyes  gleamed.  At  the  farther  door,  which  Eu- 
phrosine  held  open,  he  found  his  tongue.  "No,"  he 
said,  bowing,  "tha'z  not  the  half!  Tha'z  only  the 
big-inning!" 

The  old  woman  let  him  out.  When  she  returned 
Rosalie  stood  saying  to  madame  in  dismay:  "I  never 
— thought — of  that!  I  never — thought — of  that!" 

"I  notice'  you  didn't,"  said  the  old  servant,  "ef  you 
means  a  street  shoot'n'.  Dat  'uz  too  low  down  fo'  yo' 
thoughts.  Me,  I  think  it.  Better  le'  me  'phone 
Miche  Zoppi.  He  live'  right  roun'  here  in  S'n' 
Claude  Street." 

"M'sieu'  Zop'-Zoppi?" 

"Yass'm !    De  detective  fo'  vur  ba-ank!" 

"Go,"  said  both  ladies,  "tell  him  come  at  once!" 
155 


XXVI 
FOR  THE  COMMON  WEAL 

AT  the  edge  of  a  drive  in  Audubon  Park  an  automo 
bile  ran  slow  to  let  two  ladies  lean  out  and  salute  two 
others  moving  in  the  same  direction  on  the  walk. 

A  moment  startled,  then  delighted,  the  second  pair 
stopped  short:  "Why,  it's  Madame  and  Miss,  eh " 

"Durel,"  said  they  in  the  halted  car  to  the  wife  and 
daughter  of  the  missionary-college  president. 

There  was  time  for  but  a  word  or  so,  though  sky 
and  breeze  were  most  indulgent.  Rosalie  contrasted 
them  with  the  late  "blizzard"  and  called  the  change  a 
"return  to  civilized  weather."  The  Northerners  gaily 
assented,  albeit  their  piety  would  hardly  have  chosen 
the  phrase.  When  madame  archly  added,  of  the  sky's 
pranks,  that  she  had  supposed  "  that  weather  had  bet 
ter  sense,"  the  gentle  missionaries  wandered  off  the 
subject. 

The  Durels,  it  appeared,  were  taking  a  sunset 
breathing-spell  after  a  day  in  war-relief  work,  at  which, 
madame  said,  Rosalie  was  trying  to  kill  herself. 

They  were  fresh,  Rosalie  put  in,  from  a  droll  experi 
ence  between  their  relief  committee  and  a  committee 
of  the  old  "Societe  Francaise  du  Quatorze  Juillet": 
"No,  to  tell  it  would  take  too  long,  but — another 
time-  -" 

156 


FOR  THE  COMMON  WEAL 

"Ah,  what  time?  At  the  Smiths'  reception  you 
said " 

"We  would  call  on  you.    Yes,  we  intend  that,  soon." 

"If  you'll  come  to-morrow  we'll  join  your  war- 
relief!" 

"Ah,  most  welcome !    But  we'll  come  anyhow." 

They  came,  but  the  droll  experience  was  not,  was 
never,  told;  remains  lost.  Weightier  matters  took 
precedence. 

Philip's  aunt,  in  one  of  the  rashest  of  her  many 
poignant  moments  at  the  Smiths'  reception,  had  given 
the  Holden  ladies  the  same  promise  to  call  of  which 
t*hey  now  reminded  the  Durels.  What  had  tipped  her 
scales  in  their  favor  was  the  fact  that,  of  a  sort,  they 
were  missionaries!  "From  Greenland's  icy  moun 
tains"  was  Miss  Castleton's  Marseillaise.  She  had  a 
passion  for  propaganda,  honestly  mistaking  it  for  as 
pure  religion  as  any  defined  by  St.  James,  if  not  purer. 
In  her  it  was  that  congenital  zeal  for  domination  which 
was  also  the  spring  of  her  intense  antipathy  to  the 
dominating,  the  tyrannizing  sex;  to  all  that  sex  save 
Philip;  he  was  hers,  her  possession,  by  victory  over 
both  sexes.  And  by  the  bye,  be  it  Philip's  merit  or 
fault,  he  had  never  discovered  these  qualities  in  his 
handsome,  devout,  highly  finished,  benevolent,  almost 
fashionable  foster-mother,  though  Rosalie  had  seen 
them  even  at  Vanity  Fair.  But  that  is  a  digression. 

The  Holdens  also  had  made  a  promise;  had  offered 
Miss  Castleton  letters — letters  social,  unofficial,  to 
other  missionaries,  in  the  Orient;  to  more  real  ones 

157 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

than  they,  as  they  modestly  said,  and  as  Miss  Castle- 
ton  privately  thought.  So  when,  an  hour  after  meet 
ing  the  Durels,  they  ventured  to  telephone  Miss  Cas- 
tleton  and  to  mention  the  letters,  and  she  gratefully 
replied  that  she  was  planning  to  call  on  such  a  day, 
and  they  asked  if  to-morrow  would  not  suit,  she  said 
it  would,  and  the  Holdens  felt  as  though  they  almost 
belonged  once  more  to  society. 

She  was  in  their  little  white-walled  parlor  when  the 
Durels  appeared;  had  been  there  long  enough  to  re 
ceive  the  letters  and  all  the  counsel  they  had  stored  up 
to  give  her  on  Oriental  travel  and  sojourn.  Indeed, 
the  tea  being  slow  to  come  in,  they  had  drifted  to  other 
themes  and  had  fallen  upon  the  ever-pleasing  topic  of 
the  Creoles,  down-town,  up-town.  On  one  point,  on 
which  the  Northerners  had  had  a  false  impression, 
Miss  Castleton  set  them  right.  There  had  always 
been  up-town  Creoles,  she  said;  up-town  New  Orleans 
had  overflowed  upon  them,  not  they  upon  it;  their 
ancestors  were  the  original  land-grantees. 

"Indeed,  yes!"  the  Durels  chimed  in,  calling  a  roll 
of  historic  up-town  names — Buerthe,  Livaudais,  Har 
per,  Dugue,  Toledano,  Soniat-Dufossat,  Ferry-Durand, 
and  ran  on  into  the  old  sad  story  of  noble  fortunes 
slipping  from  noble  into  ignoble  hands — a  most  griev 
ous  thing!  The  five  were  of  one  mind  that  it  was 
very  wicked  of  the  wicked  to  be  so  very  wicked, 
and  Mrs.  Holden  told  Philip's  aunt  how  gratified  she 
had  been  to  learn,  through  the  newspapers,  that  her 
nephew  was  on  the  grand  jury.  "No,  of  course,  no 

158 


FOR  THE  COMMON  WEAL 

one  could  expect  Miss  Castleton  to  be  glad  of  it,  it 
was " 

"Too  much  like  having  him  go  to  war,"  the  aunt 
said. 

"Yes,"  the  missionaries  admitted.  "Yet  it  was 
good  to  know  that  he  was  of  a  kind  of  which  true  sol 
diers  and  true  jurymen  are  made,  and  they  wished  the 
aunt  would  call  his  attention  to  one  evil  which  ought 
to  fire  the  soul  of  every  woman,  and  of  which  they 
could  tell  much." 

The  response,  though  spoken  with  tearful  eyes,  was 
unsympathetic.  At  best  the  way  of  the  grand  jury 
man  was  hard,  Miss  Castleton  averred,  however  her 
nephew  might  laugh  it  off;  hard  and  acutely  liable  to 
provoke  deadly  resentments;  but  for  him  to  go  hunt 
ing  up  public  evils  was  altogether  likely  to  incur  only 
failure,  odium,  contempt;  whereas  if  he  waited  for 
complaints  to  come  to  him  he  would  be  brought  into 
immediate  touch  with  those  most  willing  and  best 
able  to  testify,  and  so  the  public  interest  would  be 
best  served  and  at  least  risk. 

The  missionaries  were  encouraged;  the  argument 
seemed  wise.  "And  now,"  the  mother  said  to  the 
daughter,  across  Miss  Castleton's  front,  "with  a 
grand  jury  led  by  such  a  friend  of  the  friendless  as  Mr. 
Castleton,  Mr.  Landry  and  a  few  of  his  society  might 
be  moved  to  plead  before  it." 

Unknown  to  each  other,  and  for  dissimilar  reasons, 
Miss  Castleton  and  the  Durels  took  alarm.  "Who  is 
Mr.  Landry?"  Miss  Castleton  asked,  and  before  the 

159 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Holdens  had  half  explained  she  had  risen  to  go.  She 
could  not  even  stop  for  tea,  which  had  come  in;  could 
only  glance  at  the  cups  with  the  creepy  thought  that 
any  one  of  them  might  at  some  time  have  touched  the 
lips  of  "Mr.  Landry."  She  hurried  away  in  a  sort  of 
detached  sweetness. 

When  she  was  gone  the  Durels  smiled  with  such 
frank  amusement  that  Emily,  pouring  tea,  made  bold 
to  say  to  the  Creole  girl,  a  bit  anxiously:  "You  don't 
suppose  she  felt  any  repugnance  to  our — our  tea  things 
— on  Mr.  Landry 's  account,  do  you  ? " 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Rosalie,  suddenly  grave,  though 
she  and  madame  felt  the  same  repugnance  themselves; 
"I  think  she  just  remembered  an  engagement.  But 
at  the  same  time  many  of  our  American  ladies — and 
also  Creole — might  feel  that,  yes."  She  accepted  her 
cup.  Madame  was  already  sipping  hers,  and  the 
Northerners  fell  newly  in  love  with  them,  realizing 
what  they  were  swallowing  down  besides  tea. 

"Yes,"  madame  put  in,  "though  'tis  true  their  ser 
vant'  are  of  the  same  race  as  Ovide,  an'  those  servant' 
doubtlezz  sometime'  use  their  china;  only,  of  co'ze,  in 
the  kitchen ! "  She  punctuated  with  just  the  right 
awkwardness — a  downward  thrust  of  one  arm  with  the 
fingers  spread  wide  and  the  shoulder  lifted. 

"Ah,  yes!"  cried  Rosalie,  repeating  the  gesture,  "in 
the  kitchen !  But  that's  a  tremendous  difference,  the 
kitchen.  And  yet  still  at  the  same  time,  to  see  that 
tremendous  difference,  I  think  you  have  to  be  pretty 
logical,  yes!" 

160 


FOR  THE  COMMON  WEAL 

The  Creole  pair,  trying  to  be  as  candid  as  they  could 
without  marring  courtesy;  thinking,  too,  with  all  their 
might,  of  Zephire,  and  alarmed  at  this  new  cause  of 
mortal  enmity  between  him  and  Philip,  began,  without 
a  word  of  prearrangement,  to  aim  at  the  same  mark. 
They  would  not  stifle  any  hunting  down  of  public 
wickedness,  least  of  all  this  sort;  but  for  everybody's 
sake  they  burned  to  save  Philip  Castleton  from  be 
coming  Zephire's  accuser.  Rosalie  felt,  and  knew  ma- 
dame  felt  for  her,  that  it  was  her  right,  and  her  need, 
to  learn  at  once  whether  Zephire  was  to  be  implicated, 
and,  above  all,  for  her  father's  sake,  to  learn  primarily 
whether  Zephire's  corruption  had  tainted  his  fidelity 
as  cashier  of  the  bank. 

"You  know,"  she  indulgently  resumed  when  the 
Holdens'  logic  had  mutely  failed  to  grasp  the  differ 
ence  she  had  so  lucidly  pointed  out,  "we  know  Ovide 
Landry  well.  He  was  once  the  slave  of  my  great 
grandfather,  and  his  wife  is  sister  to  one  of  our  house 
maids." 

The  Holdens  expressed  their  surprise  and  pleasure. 
Rosalie  greatly  liked  their  sweet,  strange  way  of  talk 
ing  exclusively  with  the  organs  of  speech.  She  went  on: 

"And  I  think  that  if  'mere  and  I  tell  Ovide  that 
we'll  be  glad  to  talk  over  that  grand-jury  business 
with  him " 

Both  Northerners  were  startled  to  the  front  of  their 
chairs.  "Oh,  if  you  could !  If  you  would  !" 

But  Rosalie  had  a  question  to  ask:  "Did  you  ever 
hear  of  Madame  Philomele?" 

161 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Why,  she's  the  very  foremost  offender.  Mr.  Lan- 
dry " 

"Well,  I  think  maybe  if  we  tell  Ovide  we'll  stand  his 
back  while  he  makes  those  complaints " 

"Oh,  that  would  be — oh — can  you — will  you  do 
that?" 

The  Durels  smiled  to  each  other:  "Yes,  certainly. 
We'll  be  very  pleased  to  do  that."  They  rose.  "Yes, 
we'll  begin  that  immediately.  That  is,  if  you  want  to 
leave  that,  all,  in  our  hands." 

"Yes !    Yes,  indeed,  we  leave  it  all  to  you !" 

The  callers  lingered  to  make  one  more  point.  "  You 
fcnow,  Rosalie,  w'at  we  juz'  lately  fine  out." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  the  girl  to  the  Holdens,  "you  can 
not  stop  anybody  from  being  just  a  clairvoyante  if 
they  haven't  committed  a" — she  was  not  sure  of  the 
word  and  let  madame  supply  it. 

"A  statuary  offense,"  said  madame;  "you  got  to 
prove  a  statuary  offense." 

The  same  matter  came  up  once  more  that  day,  in 
the  Castletons'  evening  group.  The  grand  jury  had 
just  held  its  weekly  sitting,  and  Philip  was  tired  enough 
to  find  relief  in  saying  things  about  it,  maybe  some 
what  boyishly  to  the  judge.  One  of  his  confessions 
was  that  to  pass  the  long  day  laboring  to  accuse  men, 
individual  men,  men  whom  one  might  know  person 
ally,  to  snipe  them  off  with  charges  of  criminal  over- 
steppings  or  shortcomings — even  though  the  labor  was 
always  and  solely  in  defense  of  society  and  govern- 

162 


FOR  THE  COMMON  WEAL 

ment — might  be  unselfish  and  patriotic,  but  could  not 
possibly  be  pleasant. 

Of  course  the  judge  reminded  him  that  the  moment 
the  grand  jury  handed  a  case  up  to  the  court  every 
benefit  of  doubt,  and  all  clemency  not  dangerous  to 
the  public  peace,  was  secured  to  the  accused. 

Philip  said  that  was  all  that  made  the  work  endur 
able. 

Such  labor,  the  judge  further  suggested,  was  rightly 
both  exalting  and  humbling. 

"Oh,  it's  humbling,  all  right,"  the  young  man  re 
plied,  "  for  it  compels  you  to  sink  every  tie — of  friend 
ship,  acquaintanceship,  kinship — into  the  common  good 
as  completely  as  though  you  were  on  the  battle-line ! " 

There  the  aunt  broke  silence.  "  No,  Phil,  no  !  Ah, 
no,  the  ties  of  kindred  are  paramount ! " 

"Even  in  disregard  of  the  public  welfare?" 

"Yes!  Yes!  You  know  I  can't  argue,  any  more 
than  I  can  sing;  but  I  can  give  instances.  I  can  give 
you  one  right  now,  one  that  you've  got  to  face  in  a 
few  days.  You're  going  to  be  petitioned — and  by 
negroes ! — a  negro  society ! — to  do  something  that  will 
make  you  still  more  scorned,  scorned  and  shunned, 
than  you  are.  And  I  beg  you  now,  Phil,  if  you  love 
me,  don't  consent !  Don't  do  it !" 

"Why,  daughter,  what  is  it?  How  have  you  heard 
of  it?" 

"Father,  it's  to  investigate  the  misdoings  of  clair- 
voyantes!"  Miss  Castleton  told  her  story  of  the 
afternoon.  She  had  no  knowledge  in  particular  of 

163 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

any  misdoings,  she  rejoiced  to  say,  or  of  clairvoy antes; 
she  was  only  taking  an  irrepressible,  instinctive — she 
could  go  no  further. 

What  she  was  taking  was  a  maternally  hovering 
action  against  all  imaginable  or  unimaginable  assaults 
or  snares  that  could  threaten  her  one  chick;  and  when 
Philip  quietly,  yet  with  a  hard  knot  between  his  brows, 
rose  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  mantelpiece  she 
felt  so  justified  that  she  pressed  her  point,  looking  up 
to  him  through  pretty  tears:  "Remember,  dear  boy, 
we're  about  to  put  a  continent  and  an  ocean  between 
us.  Don't  make  it  more  cruel  for  me  than  it  has  to  be 
anyhow." 

Philip,  looking  at  her,  forgot  all  self-concern.  "No, 
dear,"  he  said,  "I  must  not;  I  won't;  I  shan't  make  it 
a  bit  worse  than  I  have  to.  But  don't  make  a  moun 
tain  out  of  a  mole-hill — though  its  pitiful  smallness  is 
the  main  cruelty  of  it — and — sundry  things."  Yet  he 
spoke  much  too  absently  to  satisfy  her  yearning.  He 
forced  a  general  exchange  of  smiles  and  stepped  out 
of  the  room.  In  his  chamber 

"Come  in,"  he  said,  ceasing  to  pace  the  floor,  and 
the  judge,  entering,  crossed  to  a  window.  Philip  sat 
down. 

"If  auntie,"  the  judge  remarked,  "knew  what  a 
trap  this  catches  you  in  she'd  have  more  ease  than 
trouble." 

"Yes,  I  was  so  tempted  to  tell  her  so  that  I  had  to 
get  out."  The  young  man  left  his  seat,  swinging  a  fist. 
"Of  all  the  scapegraces  this  city  holds,  why  should  I 

164 


FOR  THE  COMMON   WEAL 

have  to  hale  into  court  just  that  one  who  has  made 
himself  my  private  enemy  and  is  proclaiming  me  on 
every  corner  as  having  in  pure  cowardice  declined  his 
challenge?  Heavens,  Judge,  what  am  I  going  to  look 
like  now?" 

"  Heavens,  what  do  you  care  ?    The  public  eye " 

"  Oh !  I  don't  mean  to  the  public  eye,  nor  to  yours, 
nor  auntie's,  nor  mine!" 

"Ah,  that  way !  Yes !  Unh'n.  Of  course,  I  can't 
nform  you;  I  can  only  offer  my  congratulations." 

"I  should  like  to  know  for  what." 

"That  it's  your  uncommon  luck  to  have  love  tested, 
ire-tested,  before  you're  committed  to  it  for  life.  So 
now  go  to  bed  and  sleep  on  that,  will  you  ?  " 

"Thank  you,  Judge,  I  will.  I  will,  if  I  have  to  sit 
on  myself."  Philip  drew  out  a  note  and  began  to 
read  it. 

"What's  that?"  asked  his  senior. 

"A  still  smaller  thing,"  Philip  replied,  putting  it 
away  again.  It  bade  him  prepare  to  be  cowhided  on 
sight. 

"Good  night,"  said  the  judge,  in  the  door,  linger- 
mgly. 

"Good  night,  sir,"  said  Philip. 


165 


XXVII 
IN  STORM,  BY  STRATAGEM 

NEXT  morning  it  rained.  The  wind  blew  a  gale. 
Philip  was  so  late  for  breakfast  that  the  judge  had 
gone  down-town,  and  the  aunt  was  dallying  with  the 
last  of  her  coffee.  She  was  to  begin  to-day  to  pack  for 
her  long  journey,  yet  she  stayed  to  keep  her  nephew 
company. 

For  a  while  her  words  were  few  and  all  on  the  sub 
ject  of  her  preparations.  But  at  length  she  said: 
"Phil,  dear,  I  want  you  to  promise  your  auntie  one 
thing." 

"Yes,  auntie,  I  know  you  do." 

"I've  been  wanting  for  weeks  to  ask  it  of  you/' 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know  you  have." 

"It's  no  light  whim  I  want  gratified,  dear;  it's  my 
heart's  deep,  fixed  desire." 

"Yes,  auntie,  I  know  it  is." 

She  beamed  affectionately:  "Then  why  haven't  you 
asked  me  to  ask  it?" 

"Because,  dear" — he  pushed  away  his  cup  and 
changed  his  seat  to  the  one  nearest  her — "  because  you 
mustn't.  What  you  want  to  guard  against  is  no  more 
likely  to  happen  than — why,  auntie — than  you  are  to 
get  married  yourself.  But  I  love  her  and  she  knows 
it.  She  knows,  as  painfully  as  you  do,  that  I've 

166 


IN  STORM,  BY  STRATAGEM 

sought  her  love  ever  since — oh, — Atlantic  City.  What 
would  I  look  like — to  her — to  her  father — to  myself — 
even  to  you — making  such  a  promise?"  He  had  risen 
and  was  lifting  her  fingers.  She  gazed  up  through 
her  tears  as  on  the  evening  before.  Tears  in  the  voice 
had  always  been  adequate  hitherto,  but  now  even  in 
the  eyes  they  were  bewilderingly  futile. 

"Give  your  dear  heart  entire  repose,"  he  went  on; 
"the  thing  you  dread  can't  happen.  Some  of  the  fin 
est  traits  I  love  her  for  stand  squarely  in  the  way. 
Yet  on  their  very  account  I  pledge  you  no  pledge." 
Tenderly  smiling,  he  kissed  her  hand,  laid  it  down  and 
was  gone. 

In  Esplanade  Avenue  breakfast  was  as  late  as  in 
Prytania  Street.  What  a  storm!  What  rain!  Half 
of  it  in  sheets,  the  other  half  torn  all  to  swirling  mist. 
The  petite  quadroon  maid,  the  stolen  one,  waiting  on 
the  table,  said  that  the  cook  said  that  the  chauffeur 
said  that  the  milkman,  bread-man,  newspaper-man, 
and  postman  all  had  said  that  certain  streets  were 
overflowed  and  that  the  storm  had  been  terrible  along 
the  Mississippi  Sound  coast.  Now  it  was  abating. 

In  full  daylight — as  full  as  the  storm's  darkness 
allowed — Rosalie  had  lingered  in  bed  almost  until 
now,  and  even  with  'mere  standing  fondly  by  had 
literally,  though  laughingly,  beat  her  brows.  There 
was  just  one  imperative  thing  to  do :  For  reasons  many 
— in  order  to  prevent  Zephire's  encountering  Philip;  to 
delay  Ovide's  petition  to  the  grand  jury;  and  to  get  a 
chance  to  look  privately  into  Zephire's  books — the 

167 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

thing  to  do  without  delay  was  to  get  the  cashier,  how 
ever  transiently,  out  of  town.  But  what  a  problem ! 
Thump !  thump !  thump !  on  her  temples. 

Ever  since  that  drop  below  thirty  monsieur  had  had 
a  cold  that  kept  him  constantly  turning  in  his  seat,  at 
home  or  at  the  bank,  to  see  if  some  miscreant  had  not 
left  a  door  open.  Now  after  breakfast,  sitting  at  a 
closed  window  of  the  library  with  the  morning  paper, 
he  was  addressed  by  madame: 

"There  will  be  little  doing  at  the  bank  to-day,  Al- 
phonse;  you  can  stay  at  home." 

"And,  thanks  to  the  telephone,"  said  Rosalie  at  his 
back,  with  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  "you  can  sit 
by  the  fire  and  give  your  cold  the  coup  de  grace." 

"The  fire  is  even  now  too  warm." 

"Well,  there  is  the  ice-pitcher;  you  can  sit  there!" 

Despite  her  levity  a  figurative  beating  of  her  brows 
continued.  If  this  dear  father  should  stay  at  home 
how  could  Zephire  be  spared  from  the  bank?  Yet 
blessings  on  the  storm,  for  the  time  being  it  averted 
street  encounter.  She  began  a  conversational  recon- 
noissance:  "The  war  news  is  fine,  papa,  is  it  not? 
Great  gains  in  the  Carpathians!" 

"Yes,  that  is  fine." 

"Is  there  still  no  hope  for  an  opera  season?" 

"I  fear  there  is  none." 

"The  papers  say  last  year  was  fine  for  the  New  Or 
leans  banks.  I  hope  that  is  true,  eh?" 

"Yes,  after  all,  it  has  been  good." 

"For  all  the  banks?" 

168 


IN  STORM,  BY  STRATAGEM 

"No,  not  every  bank.  In  the  later  half  of  the  year 
the  railroads  suffered  from  bad  legislation,  cotton  went 
low,  failures  were  very  many,  and  some  banks  felt  the 
pinch." 

"Did  our  bank  feel  it?" 
There  was  no  reply. 

"Papa,  what  is  the  matter  with  our  bank — inside?" 
"My  daughter !    There  is  nothing  the  matter  inside 
and  very  little  outside,  only — "    The  father  glanced 
o  the  window.    "I  think  I  will  go  now,  the  storm  is 
quieting." 

"Ah!"  his  mother  protested,  "that  quiet  will  not 
ast!" 

"Sit  still,"  said  the  daughter,  "while  I  telephone 
Zephire  that  anyhow  this  morning  you  will  not  come !" 
She  vanished  and  presently  was  back  again.     "All 
ight,  he  says,  there  is  nothing — "    Again  she  disap- 
>eared;  the  telephone  was  calling.    As  she  once  more 
eturned,  her  elders  sprang  up,  and  with  the  word 
'Telegram!"  she  began  to  read  from  a  pencilled  note: 
Biloxi !  Roof  leaking  bad !  Sailboat  blown  ashore ! 
Bath-house  and  wharf  gone  I    Somebody,  come  quick ! 
Vlinerve!'" 

A  second  tune,  in  her  heart,  she  blessed  the  storm. 
She  glanced  at  madame,  then  spoke  to  her  father: 
'You  cannot  go  to  Biloxi!" 

"No,"  madame  joined  in,  "you  can  only  send  Ze 
phire.    First  train  is  3.25;  the  bank  will  be  closed." 
Monsieur  shook  his  head.     "Not  Zephire.     Impossi- 
Whoever  goes  will  have  to  stay  over  to-morrow." 
169 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"But!"  cried  Rosalie,  "what  is  to-morrow  but  Sat 
urday  ?  Bank  open  only  till  twelve.  Zephire  can  stay 
over  even  till  Monday  morning.  And  that  is  what  we 
want!" 

"  What !    Why  should  we  want  that  ?  " 

"We  want  him  anywhere  out  of  the  city!  Papa, 
you  must  listen.  Zephire  has  been  behaving  badly." 

The  father  tossed  a  hand.  "Ah,  bah!  I  know  all 
about  that.  Only  yesterday  I  called  him  into  my  office 
and  told  him:  'Now  that  you  have  proclaimed  the 
gentleman  a  coward  and  a  sneak  you  are  done.  If  he's 
going  to  let  you  do  that,  very  well;  but  if  you  go  any 
farther  you  may  bring  about  a  public  mention  of  your 
cousin  Rosalie,  and  so  I  demand  your  word  of  honor 
that  the  matter  stop  right  here.' " 

"And  he  gave  you  his  word  of  honor?" 

"He  gave  me  his  word  of  honor." 

Rosalie  smilingly  took  him  by  the  sleeve:  "Yes. 
Well,  now  we  will  show  you  how  much  that  word  is 
worth." 

Monsieur  was  instantly  up  in  arms.  "On  whose 
word  will  you  show  me  that?  Not ?" 

"No,"  madame  eagerly  put  in,  "not  Philip  Cazzle- 
ton's  nor  his  grandfather's." 

"No,"  said  Rosalie,  "nor  even  on  the  word  of  your 
daughter,  but  of  your  mother."  She  drew  him  reluc 
tantly  to  a  seat,  waved  madame  into  one  beside  it, 
turned  away,  and  at  the  farthest  window  stood  looking 
out  into  the  storm. 

Yet  her  alertest  attention  was  bent  inward  to  the 
170 


IN  STORM,  BY  STRATAGEM 

converse  behind  her.  There  the  speech,  of  which  she 
could  make  out  only  an  occasional  word,  was  almost 
wholly  madame's,  with  now  and  then  an  interrupting 
query  from  her  father,  each  one  less  resentful  than  its 
forerunner.  She  caught  in  turn  the  mention  of  Eu- 
phrosine,  Ovide,  the  negro  nuns,  the  Holdens,  Miss 
Castleton,  and  Philomele. 

"And  so  now  for  the  moment,"  said  monsieur  to  his 
mother,  "you  hold  the  whip  by  the  handle." 

"Yes,  Rosalie  holds  it." 

"My  dear  mother,  there  is  no  law  against  that 
woman  for  being  a  clairvoyante." 

"Ah,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  She  and  Ze- 
phire- 

Rosalie  had  come  close.  "Papa,"  she  broke  in, 
"there  is  no  law  against  him  either,  for  being  a  bank 
Cashier." 

"Ah,  neither  is  that  here  nor  there." 

"My  dear  papa,  let  us  see.  When  you  know  that, 
on  his  honor,  your  cashier  has — pardon  the  word — lied 
— to  the  girl  he  wants  to  marry,  and  to  her  father,  and 
has  done  that  to  shift  a  still  viler  crime  from  himself 
to  his — pardon  again — his " 

"His  rival  in  love,"  said  madame. 

The  girl  turned  away  and  tossed  her  arms:  "Oh! 
.  .  .  Oh!  ...  Oh!" 

She  faced  round  again.  "When  you  know  that  to  be 
true,  what — as  they  say — are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?  What  are  you  going  to  do  as  the  chief  guardian 
of  the  name  of  Durel,  or  as  the  son  of  your  mother,  or 

171 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

as  the  father  of  your  daughter,  or  as  the  president  of 
your  bank?" 

She  ceased.  Madame  was  covertly,  dissuadingly 
pressing  her  hand.  The  father's  head  sank  to  his 
breast.  The  daughter  sprang  and  touched  a  bell- 
button,  then  darted  back  and  dropped  to  her  knees  at 
his.  His  hands,  unwillingly  yielded,  were  cold.  A 
light  footfall  came  in  response  to  the  bell,  but  madame 
sprang  up,  waving  it  back. 

"Go!  go  away!"  she  whispered.  "Send  Euphro- 
sine!" 

Both  father  and  daughter  glanced  after  the  retreat 
ing  figure.  It  was  the  abducted  girl.  He  moaned,  but 
straightened  higher  and  partially  regathered  his  force. 
Rosalie  caught  new  courage.  She  stood  up.  "Listen, 
papa,  again.  If  Zephire  is  still  an  honest  bank  officer 
you  could  not  do  him  a  finer  service  than  this.  Guar 
dian  angels  have  brought  us  this  opportunity.  In 
twenty  years  there  may  not  be  such  another.  Let  me 
go  and  tell  him  to  take  the  first  train." 

"No,  you  he  might  suspect.  I  will  tell  him  myself." 
He  went  out  to  the  instrument.  Euphrosine  came  in. 

"Never  mind,"  said  madame,  "M'sieu'  Alphonse 
was  a  moment  faint.  'Tis  pas'.  Your  sizter  an'  her 
husban',  Euphrosine,  they  are  pretty  well  ? " 

"Yass'm,"  said  the  housemaid,  withdrawing,  "she 
ax  me  to  tell  you  dat  Ovide  be  at  yo'  sarvice  fo'  any 
thing  lak  what  you  done  mention'.  Yass'm." 

The  master  of  the  house,  re-entering,  passed  her  in 
the  doorway.  "Eh?  Wat  is  that?" 

172 


IN  STORM,  BY  STRATAGEM 

But  Rosalie  cried  gayly:  "Don't  you  tell  him,  Eu- 
phrosine !  Don't  you  say  a  word  !  Go !" 

The  father  frowned,  smiled,  gave  a  soft  grunt  and 
toss  and  sank  into  an  armchair:  "I  have  told  him.  He 
is  pleased.  He  goes  on  the  3.25.  His  own  boat  is 
unhurt." 


173 


XXVIII 
BETWEEN  THE  BOXES  AND  THE  BOOKS 

"AND  now/'  said  Rosalie,  "how  will  you  proceed?" 

"It  is  simple.  I  call  in  a  professional  accountant 
and  examiner,  a  man  of  the  highest  standing  both  in 
his  profession  and  out  of  it " 

Madame  demurred.  "Ah,  Alphonse,  the  higher  the 
worse!" 

"My  faith!    How?" 

"My  son,  it  is  a  terrible  thing  to  have  even  one 
man,  of  highest  standing,  to  carry  the  secret,  keeping 
it  or  not  keeping  it,  that  a  Durel  has  betrayed  his 
financial  trust.  That  is  not  the  kind  of  man  I  would 
choose." 

"My  dear  mother,  and  what  kind,  then,  would  you 
choose?" 

"I  would  choose  a  man  of  no  standing  at  all;  not 
honored,  just  honest,  and  loving  and  honoring,  as  if 
they  were  his  own  good  name,  the  names  of  Ducatel 
and  Durel." 

"Yes!"  cried  Rosalie,  "and  that  is  Ovide  Landry! 
Ovide  is  the  key  to  the  lock,  the  man  of  the  hour !  By 
birth,  by  all  his  life  the  appointment  of  a  merciful 
heaven ! " 

"  My  God  I "  gasped  the  father.  "  To  spy  out  a  white 
man's  stewardship?" 

174 


BETWEEN  THE  BOXES  AND  THE  BOOKS 

"Yes !    Yes  I    So  to  keep  the  secret  in  the  family ! " 

"In  both  families/'  said  monsieur  meditatively. 

"  Both  ? "  asked  madame.     "  Both  ?  " 

"My  dear  mother,  yes.  If  Zephire  has  gone  wrong, 
one  of  the  tellers,  one  of  the  Ducatels,  has  gone  wrong 
with  him.  No  one  man  alone  could  rob  my  bank,  but 
a  cashier  and  a  teller  combined  can  skin  any  bank  in 
the  land." 

That  night  the  sky  cleared.  The  next  day  at  twelve 
the  bank's  doors  stood  locked  and  the  only  one  in  its 
cages  was  a  single  clerk  waiting  to  set  the  time-lock 
and  close  the  vault.  For  back  in  the  president's  office 
M.  Durel  lingered  with  no  better  purpose  than  to 
shorten  a  poor  clerk's  half-holiday  while  chatting  idly, 
gaily,  with  the  two  ladies  of  his  household,  who  had 
come  for  him  in  their  motor-car.  How  thoughtless  are 
the  care-free  rich !  But  now  at  last  the  giddy  three 
came  out  into  the  bank. 

"Ah,  Eugene,  you  can  go;  I  will  close  the  vault 
myself." 

"I  am  in  no  hurry,"  laughed  Eugene  heroically  and 
was  gone  like  a  wild  duck. 

"Now,  both  you  have  each  your  little  key?"  asked 
monsieur,  and  the  ladies  showed  two  keys  which  had 
lain  in  their  jewel-cases  untouched  for  years  while  he 
supposedly,  but  Zephire  in  fact,  had  held  their  dupli 
cates.  He  flashed  on  the  lights  of  the  vault  and 
entered  it  alone,  the  other  two  waiting  silently  with 
out.  To  be  shut  inside  a  bank  at  such  an  hour  dis 
poses  one  to  breathe  gently  and  step  softly  in  awe  of 

175 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

its  slumbering  power,  and  to  realize  everything  beyond 
its  walls,  near  and  far,  with  an  unusual  intensity.  Out 
there  the  great  city  flowed  and  eddied,  clanged  and 
thundered,  so  awfully  full  of  wrongs  and  vices  staring 
and  glittering,  elbowing  and  flaunting;  so  quietly  full 
of  virtues  and  kindnesses  as  unseen  to  the  heedless 
eye  as  the  salt  in  the  sea,  yet  keeping  the  great  deep 
of  humanity  unspoiled. 

Monsieur's  face  was  brighter  when  he  reappeared. 
In  each  hand  he  bore  a  safe-deposit  box.  "Feel  their 
weight,"  he  challenged,  setting  them  on  a  table.  Their 
weight  was  reassuring.  But  when  madame  had  opened 
her  box,  and  Rosalie  hers,  they  found  them  full  of  long 
blank  envelopes  containing — 

"Nothing,"  murmured  the  mother  to  her  son,  and — 

"Nothing,"  murmured  the  daughter.  She  clasped 
her  hands  on  the  reclosed  box  and  with  tearful  eyes 
but  smiling  face  added:  "As  for  me  alone,  I  should  be 
satisfied — satisfied!  I  would  say:  'Cheap!  at  double 
the  price!'" 

"But,  Alphonse,  your  own  boxes?" 

The  banker  shook  his  head:  "I  have  emptied  those 
myself.  Because  of  others  I  have  had  to  borrow  much 
of  late.  All  my  securities  are  hypothecated.  We  are 
ruined,  and  I  am  one  more  bank  president  disgraced." 

"  Not  so !  Again  and  again,  not  so — unless — still 
others  have  been  robbed !  If  not,  then  only  Ovide  will 
ever  know,  and  Ovide  will  perfectly  understand ! " 

"Ah,  my  mother,  my  daughter !  You  do  not,  your 
selves,  even  now,  perfectly  understand.  I  have  had 

176 


BETWEEN  THE  BOXES  AND  THE  BOOKS 

fifty  hours  without  sleep,  in  which  to  think  that  over, 
and  if  I  am  still  an  honest  banker  I  must  take  at  least 
one  white  man  into  my  confidence." 

"Ah,  papa!  .  .  .    Ah,  papa!" 

"Not  just  to  be  telling  a  white  man,  my  daughter, 
but- 

"  I  know  why !    I  guess  it !    I  know ! " 

"I  think  not.  It  is  just  what  you  would  never 
guess — of  me.  I  must  tell  him — though  not  officially 
— because  he  is  foreman  of  the  grand  jury." 

She  flinched.  "Fore' — "  she  murmured,  as  though 
she  dreamed. 

"Yes,  and  only  because  he  holds  that  office." 

"Ah,"  said  madame  to  Rosalie,  "that  is  the  best 
reason!" 

"There  could  be  no  other,"  replied  the  girl.  "But, 
papa,  he  will  want  his  lawyer,  and  that  is  his  grand 
father." 

"But  how  do  we  know,"  queried  madame,  "that 
either  will  consent  to  come?  Have  they  not  had 
enough  of  Zephire?" 

"I  have  thought  of  that,"  said  her  son.  "Rosalie 
will  telephone  the  young  man " 

"No,"  said  both  women  in  one  breath,  and  madame 
added: 

"You  will  do  that  yourself,  but  you  will  say:  'My 
daughter  is  here  and  wants  to  ask  you  something/ 
And  then— but  when  will  that  be?" 

"At  once — and  right  here;  only,  first  Ovide." 

Monsieur  closed  the  vault,  the  three  left  the  bank. 
177 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

But  presently  they  were  back  again,  having  motored 
down  to  Ovide's  shop  and  made  a  full  arrangement 
with  him.  Now  they  rang  up  the  Castletons'  number. 

"No,  neither  gentleman  was  in.  Mr.  Philip  might 
be  at  the  university."  But  the  university  said  no,  he 
was  gone  from  there;  might  be  at  Howard  Library. 
He  was.  The  library  had  no  telephone,  but  used  a 
neighbor's.  "This  is  Philip  Castleton." 

"Mr.  Cazzleton,  this  is  Mr.  Durel;  Alphonse,  presid* 
— yes.  My  daughter " 

"Mr.  Castleton,  this  is  Rosalie  Durel,  at  the  bank; 
also  'mere  and  papa.  The  bank  is  closed,  everybody 
gone.  Zephire  is  across  the  lake.  We  want  to  see 
you  a  few  moments.  You  can  come  ?  At  the  bank  ? 
Now?  By  side  door?" 

She  hung  up.     "He  will  come  at  once." 

Waiting,  the  three  sat  and  planned.  To  which  of 
the  three  the  chief  credit  belongs  for  the  ingenious  de 
sign  they  were  presently  to  reveal  to  Philip  matters 
not;  the  first  thought  of  it  was  Rosalie's.  Within  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  there  came  a  tap  on  the  side  door, 
and  Philip  was  let  in. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  banker,  "I  su'pose  you'll  be 
surprise'  at  us  when  you  know  that  one  reason  we  have 
ask'  you  here  'tis  to  invite  you — an'  the  judge — an'  if 
convenient  yo'  h-aunt — to  go  with  us  this  evening  ad 
the  theatre.  We  have  already  the  box." 

Rosalie  interrupted :  "  That's  not  the  way  to  invite 
you,  but  before  you  decline  you  must  hear  why  you're 
invited  that  way." 

178 


BETWEEN  THE  BOXES  AND  THE  BOOKS 

Philip  smiled.  "Do  I  betray  symptoms  of  declin 
ing?" 

"My  dear  sir,"  monsieur  said,  "you,  even  if  die- 
lining,  you  wou'n'  bit-ray  symptom'.  But  we  have  to 
confess  we  are  prop-osing  that  pleasure  as  a  matter  of 
business." 

"Of  the  bank,"  said  his  mother,  while — 

"Of  the  grand  jury,"  suggested  the  daughter. 

Philip  smiled  again,  all  round.     "Is  this  a  riddle?" 

"Mr.  Cazzleton,"  said  monsieur,  "we  'ave  juz'  find 
sign'  of  trouble  in  thiz  bank." 

Philip  clutched  the  arms  of  his  chair.     "Yes,  sir?" 

"Yes;  maybe  true  sign',  maybe  no;  but  if  true  a  part 
of  thad  blame  is  on  me.  Biccause  of  that  I  have  to 
ask  you  to  take  me — unofficially — into  yo'  cuztody." 

Philip  could  only  bow,  and  shift  in  his  chair. 

"Biccause,  firz'  thing,  tha'z  to  examine  those  ac 
count',  an'  till  we  fine  out  something  wrong  we  muz' 
keep  that  from  the  public,  so  not  to  make  a  run  on  the 
bank.  Also  my  cashier — by  my  requess — he's  out  of 
the  State,  an'  if  he  take  al-arm" — hands  and  shoulders 
went  up. 

"  When  will  you  have  the  examination  ?  " 

"Commencing  at  nine  to-night." 

"While  we  are  at  the  theatre?" 

"While  we  are  su'pose'  there;  but  you  an'  me,  leav 
ing  those  other'  ad  the  play,  we'll  be  here  ad  the  bank 
with  that  examiner,  to  rim-ain  till  he's  finizh'.  But  I 
muz'  tell  you,  that  examiner  he's  black !  He's  Ovide 
Landry." 

179 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"That's  all  right,  sir,  but  are  you  willing  the  judge 
should  know  all  this?" 

"We  are  willing.  But  yo'  h-aunt — I  thing  maybe 
she's  not  compel'  to  know,  eh?" 

"Why,  ladies,  I  know  my  aunt  can't  come.  She's 
very  busy  preparing  to  go  away  and  has  a  prior  engage 
ment." 

The  ladies  were  sorry  yet  very  lenient.  "But 
Judge — ?"  Rosalie  began  to  ask,  when  her  father  in 
terrupted. 

"And  you  will  make  me,"  he  said,  "one  promiz?'" 

"I'll  have  to  ask  what  it  is." 

"That  you  will  do  nothing  aggains'  Zephire  till  we 
fine  out  the  condition  of  the  bank." 

"I  promise  that.    Now  may  I  ask  something?" 

"At  your  pleasure." 

"The  State  examiner,  when  shall  you  call  him  in?" 

"When  my  board  shall  choose." 

"And  you  expect  to  inform  your  board ?" 

"At  ten  to-morrow,  Sunday,  if  we  fine  something 
bad,  same  time  whiles  offering  my  resignation." 

The  ladies  stirred  with  new  distress.  "But  Judge 
Castleton?"  inquired  Rosalie,  for  a  diversion. 

"Probably  I  can  settle  that  here  by  telephone,"  said 
Philip.  He  took  the  receiver.  "Judge?"  he  called; 
an  answer  came.  Briefly  stating  the  invitation's  im 
portance,  not  its  purport,  he  gave  it,  waited,  frowned. 
"Oh!...  Oh!  Can't  you— ?  Yes !"  and  while  he 
waited  again  he  explained  that  the  judge  had  a  conflict 
ing  appointment  which  he  was  endeavoring  to  cancel. 

180 


BETWEEN  THE  BOXES  AND  THE  BOOKS 

"Tink,"  said  the  instrument.  "Yes,"  replied  Philip, 
and  all  four  heard  the  judge,  as  if  he  were  but  nine 
inches  high,  say  he  "accepted  with  pleasure." 

They  rose.  "Now,  sir,"  said  Philip,  "where  am  I 
to  meet  you  ?  At  the  theatre  ?  " 

The  banker  shook  his  head.  "We  are  not  to  sep- 
arrate.  We'll  sen'  the  ladies  ad  home  an'  lunch  to 
gether.  '  Je  ne  suis  pas  prisonnier,  mais — '  I  am  in  yo' 
cuztody." 

The  play  that  night  was  one  of  the  choicest  of  the 
season.  A  minute  before  the  curtain  rose,  in  the  radi 
ance  of  a  fully  lighted  auditorium  and  in  view  of  a 
fashionable  assemblage,  the  Durels,  with  the  judge, 
Philip,  and  one  of  the  Ducatel  bank-tellers,  entered 
their  box.  To  the  Castletons  the  whole  affair  was  a 
strange  bit  of  punctilio,  dazzling  in  its  integrity,  "  very 
Creole,"  as  the  judge  said  to  Philip,  yet  not  without  a 
touch  of  Creole  finesse. 

"You  see  M.  Durel  has  also  us  in  his  custody." 

"That's  all  right,"  Philip  replied,  and  turned  to 
Rosalie. 

The  judge  sat  with  the  ladies.  The  teller  had  a 
choice  rear  seat.  Monsieur  confessed  a  growing  "mi 
graine,"  and  when  in  the  darkness  of  the  first  act  the 
teller  missed  him  and  Philip  the  headache  amply  ac 
counted  for  their  absence. 

Soon  after  daylight,  while  Ovide  stayed,  monsieur 
let  Philip  out  at  the  bank's  side  door.  No  need  re 
mained  for  either  to  hold  the  other  in  custody.  By 
telephone  a  meeting  of  the  board  was  already  called. 

181 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Conditions  had  been  found  as  bad  as  any  outwitted 
State  inspection  had  ever  failed  to  detect — worse  than 
they  possibly  could  have  been  but  for  a  president's 
misplaced  confidence. 

Said  Philip,  alone  with  the  judge  at  breakfast:  "Ze- 
phire,  using  that  teller,  has  been  robbing  the  bank  for 
years.  The  first  step  now  is  to  make  his  stealings  good 
without  letting  the  facts  get  beyond  the  board.  It  will 
take  all  the  Durels  have  got,  even  if  they're  allowed 
time  to  reduce  their  realties  to  cash.  They'll  save 
nothing " 

"But  honor,"  said  the  judge,  "honor  and  loveliness." 

"And  poor  relations/'  Philip  added. 


182 


XXIX 
HER  WOOF  ON  HIS  WARP 

MONDAY  morning  found  Zephire  at  his  desk. 

That  the  board  had  met  on  Sunday  or  that  any  one 
had  been  in  the  bank  since  Saturday  noon  there  was 
no  sign  save  in  the  president's  face.  There  Zephire 
noted  a  refined  haggardness  for  which  an  increased 
cold  hardly  accounted. 

The  cashier  early  heard  of  the  theatre-party  from 
the  Ducatel  whom  it  had  included,  and  instantly  saw 
his  Biloxi  mission  in  a  new  yet  false  light.  But  Ducatel 
dwelt  so  ardently  on  the  physical  charms  of  the  lead 
ing  actress  as  to  leave  no  time  to  say  or  be  asked 
aught  regarding  Philip  or  monsieur.  Secretly  amazed 
and  newly  enraged,  Zephire  discerned  Rosalie's  ingenu 
ity,  but  guessed  only  a  further  move  to  put  his  rival 
supplantingly  in  his  place.  Her  father's  haggard  look 
remained  a  disquieting  riddle. 

When  the  cashier  went  to  lunch  he  had  under  his 
coat  both  his  pistol  and  a  cowhide  whip.  In  Canal 
Street  he  met  Philip,  but  the  elder  Castleton  was  with 
him,  and  most  grudgingly  he  let  them  pass.  Then, 
however,  he  stopped  and  followed  till  they  turned  into 
Chartres  Street,  as  if  bound  for  Ovide's  shop.  Resum 
ing  his  own  way,  he  perceived  that  he  was  himself  shad- 

183 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

owed  by  the  bank's  detective,  but  felt  sure  that  this 
was  solely  to  avert  his  actual  assault  on  Philip. 

Lunching  alone,  he  recalled  with  redoubled  anxiety 
the  president's  look.  For  it  he  must,  he  must,  find 
something  to  account!  That  Alphonse  should  so  far 
yield  to  his  daughter  as  to  make  a  public  parade  of 
friendliness  with  the  two  Castletons  in  the  face  of 
common  gossip  that  one  of  them  was  letting  himself 
be  branded,  on  the  open  street,  as  a  coward  and  an 
apostate  to  his  race,  could  be  only  for  some  appalling, 
compelling  reason.  It  was  unbelievable  that  the  pur 
pose  should  be  no  more  than  to  repudiate  his,  Zephire's, 
quarrel.  There  was  something  else!  He  began  over 
again  to  put  the  fractions  of  his  puzzle  together  and 
the  first  two  pieces  fitted !  Alphonse  was  short  of 
funds,  and  the  Castletons  were  "long";  not  a  mile 
long,  yet  long.  Rosalie  had  become  a  negotiable 
asset!  He  started  up  and  hurried  back  to  the  bank 
and  his  desk. 

Meanwhile  the  two  Durel  ladies  had  set  out  from 
home  for  Ovide's  shop.  The  drawn  features  of  mon 
sieur  were  as  hauntingly  in  their  mind  as  in  Zephire's, 
and  none  the  less  so  because  they  knew  its  meaning. 
They  had  kept  it  out  of  their  own  faces  only  by  a 
feminine  heroism  which  they  called  necessity,  and 
mainly  for  his  sake.  Hardly  conscious  of  choosing, 
they  took  a  zig-zag  route;  a  square's  length  up-town, 
then  as  much  toward  the  river,  then  a  square  up-town, 
a  square  riverward,  and  so  on;  at  each  corner  freshly 
repelled  by  the  surrounding  forlornness  and  decay. 

184 


HER  WOOF  ON  HIS  WARP 

The  Vieux  Carre  seemed  to  mimic  their  state  of  affairs. 
As  they  went  cautiously  over  the  broken  sidewalks  of 
brick,  flagstones,  and  concrete  by  turn,  their  murmur 
ous  talk,  as  uneven  as  their  steps,  and  now  in  English 
and  now  in  French,  was  as  light  as  they  could  make  it 
and  in  bright  contrast  to  the  load  on  their  hearts. 
Yet  it  was  of  the  grand  jury. 

"To  take  notiz',"  said  madame,  "of  those  girl- 
stealer',  tha'z  doubtlezz  all  right;  they  got  to  be  take' 
notiz'  of;  but  same  time — look  ad  that !" 

"That"  was  a  mountain  of  trash  dumped  from  a 
private  yard  into  the  public  thoroughfare,  and  the 
invitation  meant  not  to  turn  and  gaze  but  to  see — 
without  being  seen  to  see — the  spot  and  all — or  at 
least  half,  the  unasphalted  half — of  the  region.  "Me, 
if  I  was  that  gran'  jury,  firz  thing  I  would  do,  I  would 
call  notiz'  to  those  street'.  I  would  compel  attention 
to  that.  Mud,  by  cartload' !  Paper,  rag',  straw,  by 
cartload'!" 

"Ah,  but  sometimes  only  handcart!" 

"An'  sometime'  two-horse  cart.  Loose  cobble',  cart 
load'  !  Tin  can',  broken  slate',  brickbat',  by  cartl* — 
ah!" — the  critic  swerved  from  something  alive  at  her 
feet — "  mon  Dieu !  even  those  cat'  they  are  too  dirty  to 
get  out  of  the  way  !  I  thing  the  good  God  be  thankful 
if  we  abolizh  firz  some  dirt  an'  then  some  wickednezz." 

The  black  woman  chuckled.  "Hunh!  Y'ought  to 
see  some  o'  de  nigger  streets." 

"They  are  worse?" 

"Law',  dis  is  good  housekeepin'  to  some  o'  dem. 
185 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Momselle,  is  dat  so,  dat  in  some  countrie'  evem  de 
nigger  streets  is  clean?"  She  got  no  reply,  cared  for 
none;  rarely  ventured  deeper  into  politics  than  this 
comforting  taunt. 

Philip  and  the  judge,  nearer  by  than  they  were  sup 
posed  to  be,  and  as  willing  as  the  Durels  to  talk  most 
of  what  troubled  them  least,  found  one  or  two  extenua 
tions  for  the  squalor.  For  generations,  in  almost  every 
case  where  the  Creole  manner  of  building  had  given 
way  to  newer  sorts  the  newer  were  so  cheaply,  clumsily 
frivolous  that  no  cleanliness  could  ever  redeem  them 
or  their  surroundings. 

"Pity,  Phil,  your  grand  jury  can't  bring  architec 
tural  ugliness  into  court." 

Philip  lightly  rejoined  that  good  architecture  did  not 
insure  clean  living,  physical  or  moral. 

"Yet,  the  world  over,"  insisted  the  judge,  "wherever 
the  poor  man's  typical  house  is  ugly,  dirt  stops  and 
stays." 

"You  wouldn't  call  them  cause  and  effect?" 

"I'd  call  them  joint  effects — of  something  unworthy 
in  the  public  mind." 

"And  then  what  would  the  public  call  you?" 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  expect  the  public  to  pay  wages 
every  Saturday  night.  Young  man" — they  had 
reached  the  book-shop,  and  the  judge  laid  a  finger  on 
Philip's  breast — "mark  me!  A  man  can  tell  the  pub 
lic  its  faults  successfully;  but  strait  is  the  art  and  few 
there  be  that  find  it." 

"Suppose  it's  an  art  one  doesn't  want." 
186 


HER  WOOF  ON  HIS  WARP 

"No  well-regulated  citizen  should  be  without  it." 

"Well,  then,  what's  the  secret  of  it?" 

"This:  Love  your  public  at  least  twice  as  hard  as 
you  scold  it.  But  be  sure  you  love  it;  don't  just 
think  so." 

"The  way  auntie  thinks  she  loves  Browning?" 
laughed  Philip  as  they  entered  the  book-shop.  Miss 
Castleton,  by  the  way,  was  to  sail  early  the  next  morn 
ing  for  the  Mediterranean. 

By  and  by  Rosalie,  madame,  and  their  maid  arrived 
at  the  shop  door.  Ovide's  wife  stood  in  it.  He,  she 
said,  was  in  the  rear  room  so  busy  with  two  gentlemen, 
that  she— 

"Member'  of  the  board  of  the  bank?" 

"Oh,  no'm,  not  o'  de  boa'd,  no'm!" 

The  startled  callers  began  to  draw  away. 

"Oh,  dey  won't  come  out  fo'  a  smart  while  yit;  dey 
jes'  gone  in.  You  as  good  a  right  to  come  in  an' 
wait  as " 

"No-no-no-no-no!  We'll  make  some  erran'  an' 
rit-urn." 

"But,  dat  away  you'll  miss  Ovide  twice  over;  soon 
as  finish'  here  he  got  to  go  right  up  to  de  bank." 

"No-no-no !"  The  pair  smiled  down  and  waved  off 
all  assurances.  "But  come,  you,  a  few  steps,  while 
still  watching  the  shop,  and  we'll  tell  you  what  to  tell 
Ovide." 

At  a  snail's  pace  but  in  hurried  speech  they  told  it: 

"Those  ladies  at  the  college,  they  promise  hands 
off.  And  that's  the  reason  they  don't  know  that  to 

187 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

make  trouble  for  Philomele  right  now,  would  make 
trouble  also  for  Zephire,  and  that  would  expose  his 
trouble  with  the  bank;  and  that  would  make  a  run  on 
the  bank,  and  that  would  bring  other  banks  into  the 
dif-/c-ulty,  and  that  would  produce  a  panic;  and  that 
would  cause  a  terrible  condition  of  those  poor,  both 
white  and  black,  and  maybe  that  wouldn't  stop  all 
over  the  United  States,  and  perchance  might  even  get 
us  into  that  awful  Eu-ro-pean  war;  and  that's  the  chief 
cause  that  we'd  be  glad  if  Ovide  would  go  just  a  little 
slow  with  that  complaint  till  some  new  devel-ope-ment. 
You  understand,  that's  not  to  save  ourselves — no-o ! — 
and  neither  we  don't  want  to  defeat  those  ends  of  jus 
tice — ah,  non !  But  we  don't  want  to  make  ten  times 
as  much  misery  as  we  extinguish;  you  understand? 
And  you'll  tell  Ovide,  if  he  knows  any  way  to  keep 
Zephire  out  of  that  and  same  time  not  defeat  those 
ends  of  justice " 

"Yas'm,"  the  spectacled  wife  interrupted,  backing 
toward  the  shop,  "I  tell  him,  an' — eh — anyhow  he — 
he  do  his  bes'."  She  smiled  kindly,  yet  in  her  tone 
there  was  a  hint  of  reservation.  Euphrosine  noted  it 
and  stepped  forward. 

The  spectacles  halted  and  Euphrosine,  close  to  them 
and  apart  from  the  ladies,  mumbled:  "Sisteh,  ef  you 
thinks  to  do  young  Mr.  Cassamun  a  favor  by  gitt'n' 
Zephire  Djurel  into  dis  mix-up  you  gwine  to  miss  it  as 
wide  as  de  Mas'sippi  River.  Ef  you  wants  to  sarve 
him  an'  momselle  an'  true  love  all  in  one  lick,  you  go 
do  what  she  done  tell  you." 

188 


HER  WOOF  ON  HIS  WARP 

For  reply  the  wife,  ignoring  her  adviser,  shed  on 
Rosalie  a  new  benevolence  and  said:  "Oh,  yas'm,  da's 
all  right.  I  sees  how  dat  kin  be  done.  You  kin  res' 
easy  'bout  dat,  bofe  o'  you;  yas'm."  She  turned  for 
the  shop. 

The  ladies  and  their  maid  moved  on  down-street, 
passed  under  the  arcade  of  the  Cabildo,  hesitated,  then 
crossed  the  way  and  disappeared  within  the  iron  gates 
and  among  the  sunbathed  shrubberies  of  Jackson 
Square.  But  outward  sunshine  only  mocked  the  inner 
gloom  and  dismay  with  which  they  struggled,  and  after 
as  brief  a  circuit  as  two  steeple  doves  might  make  on 
the  street  pavement  they  went  out  where  they  had 
come  in,  and  recrossed  the  way. 

In  the  marble  floor  of  the  cathedral,  close  before  two 
side  altars  at  opposite  doors  of  the  transept,  are  two 
foot-worn  tablets,  of  which  all  curious  visitors  are 
charged  to  take  note.  One  marks  the  last  resting- 
place  of  Don  Andreas  Almonaster  y  Roxas,  the  other 
is  sacred  to  the  memory  of  three  Phillippe  Marigny- 
Mandevilles.  Never  mind  to-day  who  they  were. 
There,  that  afternoon,  knelt  three  worshippers,  a  dark 
one  on  this  side,  two  fair  ones  on  that,  who,  having 
done  the  best  they  knew  for  love  and  righteousness, 
now  turned  their  backs  on  this  fearful  world  and  cast 
their  yearnings  and  tremblings  on  a  divine  compassion. 

Go  softly,  mere  sight-seer.  Turn  back  and  seek 
some  remoter  exit.  Every  heart  knoweth  its  own — 
Come  away. 


180 


XXX 

A  MISTAKE  IN  BRANDING 

AFTER  his  solitary  lunch  Zephire  had  been  back  at 
his  desk  an  hour  or  so,  when  he  was  newly  startled. 

Laboring  to  guess  why  the  Castletons  should  have 
been  going  together  to  the  bookman's  shop  at  that 
busy  time  of  day,  and  glancing  now  and  then  into  the 
bank's  rear  office,  whom  should  he  espy  accepting  a  seat 
there,  a  seat  alone  with  the  president,  but  Ovide  him 
self.  For  what  he  had  come  the  cashier  could  only, 
between  business  interruptions,  indignantly,  anxiously, 
wonder  and  wonder  while  Ovide  sat  and  sat.  White 
men  waited  outside,  chafed,  and  went  away  sour. 

At  length  Ovide  departed.  Zephire,  in  his  time, 
had  seen  unnumbered  clients  enter  and  leave  that  room 
and  had  learned  to  divine  their  errands.  He  was,  we 
say,  no  craven;  but  now  he  felt  consternation  thump 
with  every  pulse  as  he  thought  to  himself:  "Alphonse 
Durel !  Have  your  negotiating  Castletons  asked  for  a 
show-down  ?  Is  it  to  make  good  for  your  mother  and 
daughter  that  you  are  borrowing  from  a  nigger  ?  And 
am  I,  then,  by  that  show-down,  found  out?" 

The  bank  closed  for  the  day,  and  the  president 
"would  like  to  see  him."  He  went  in. 

"Zephire,  bring  me  the  boxes  of  my  mother  and 
Rosalie." 

180 


A  MISTAKE  IN  BRANDING 

Sweating,  he  brought  them,  and  began  a  clever  play 
of  searching  himself  for  their  keys.  Monsieur  cruelly 
kept  the  play  up.  It  was  quite  too  much  like  cat  and 
mouse.  "  May  you  not  have  left  them  in  your  room  ?  " 

"Yes !  I'll  go  and  get  them — unless  to-morrow  will 
i  «» 

"No,  get  them  now.    I  can  wait." 

He  went  out  stupefied,  paralyzed,  suffocated.  He 
might  have  caught  hope  in  his  cousin's  readiness  to 
allow  him  out  of  sight  had  he  not  remembered  the  de 
tective.  At  the  first  corner  he  stole  a  side  glance  back 
and  there  the  detective  came.  Oh,  that  anything 
might  occur,  be  made  to  occur,  that  could  delay  for  a 
night,  an  hour,  the  debacle ! 

Had  the  Castletons  a  hand  in  it?  Oh,  to  meet 
Philip  now!  Revenge  should  have  her  perfect  work! 
And  somehow,  oh,  somehow !  there  might  be  salvation 
in  the  encounter.  A  new  sweat  of  desperation  stood 
on  his  brow.  He  did  not  go  to  his  rooms.  Giddy, 
faint,  as  though  he  fled  from  a  volcanic  eruption,  he 
sought  the  Carondelet  Street  office  of  his  partner  in 
cotton  adventures.  But  he  never  reached  it. 

The  two  Castletons  were  in  that  street.  They  had 
been  doing  a  number  of  last  things  for  Miss  Castleton 
and  now  appeared  about  to  part.  The  judge  looked 
at  his  watch. 

"Bank's  closed,"  he  said.  "You've  got  auntie's 
money?  Good.  Phil,  has  Zephire  made  you  no  threat 
of  violence?" 

"Why,  you're  as  sudden  as  a  cross-examiner,  Judge." 
191 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Never  mind,  I  reckon  I'll  stay  with  you  a  bit 
longer." 

"Oh,  you  go  on,  I'll  see  you  at  dinner."  Finally 
they  started  in  contrary  directions.  Half  a  square 
off  the  judge  stood  a  moment  and  then  retraced  his 
steps. 

In  the  middle  of  a  square  Philip  had  bought  an  after 
noon  paper  and  was  just  resuming  his  way  when  the 
thing  he  had  dreaded  for  days,  dreaded  more  than  he 
knew,  his  crowning  humiliation,  a  street  fracas,  con 
fronted  him.  Zephire  Durel,  whip  in  hand  uplifted 
arrestingly,  faced  him  on  the  sidewalk.  In  the  other 
hand  was  his  pistol. 

Philip  leaped  forward.  The  whip  cut  him  squarely 
across  the  eyes,  but  with  both  hands  he  wrenched  the 
pistol  free,  though  it  fired.  He  cast  it  to  the  ground, 
throttled  his  foe,  and  after  a  short  struggle,  crushed 
him  against  a  wall.  At  the  cut  of  the  whip  the  street 
had  swarmed  with  men,  but  on  the  pistol's  crack  they 
had  leaped  to  cover.  The  detective  ran  up,  but  he 
and  the  judge  got  entangled,  and  before  they  could 
separate,  Zephire's  eyes  were  protruding,  his  face  was 
blue,  legs  limp,  head  bloody,  and  a  rib  broken  by  one 
of  Philip's  knees.  Only  the  masonry  and  his  foe's  grip 
held  him  up.  The  judge  and  the  officer  tore  them 
apart,  the  crowd  closed  in.  Then  hats  were  restored, 
the  newsboy  handed  the  pistol  to  the  detective,  and 
taxicabs  were  called. 

"Now,  judge,"  Philip  bitterly  laughed,  "what  do  I 
look  like?" — and  the  crowd  laughed  with  him. 

192 


A  MISTAKE  IN  BRANDING 

As  the  two  sped  homeward  Philip  found  the  whip  In 
his  grasp,  and  a  bullet-hole  in  his  sleeve. 

"Phil,  there's  one  small  comfort;  the  crowd  approves. 
.  .  .  Your  classes  have  been  thin  of  late,  haven't 
they?" 

"Decidedly  thin." 

"They'll  be  crowded  to-morrow." 

Meanwhile  the  detective  had  telephoned  M.  Durel 
of  the  incident  and  was  taking  Zephire  to  his  rooms 
and  bed. 

Monsieur  stood  at  Zephire's  bedside,  alone.  In  the 
front  room,  the  room  of  the  antique  bookcase,  etc.,  he 
had  talked  with  the  detective,  and  had  sent  him  on  an 
errand.  The  day's  fatigue  had  sharpened  his  haggard 
look,  but  its  refinement  also  was  intensified.  Stand 
ing,  he  laid  his  delicate  hand  on  one  of  Zephire's  with 
a  slow,  gentle  stroke. 

Down  in  the  cashier's  husky  throat  something  in 
articulate  rattled.  The  elder  cousin,  rather  to  himself 
than  to  the  prostrate  man,  smiled.  "You  need  not 
pretend,"  he  said,  "to  be  unable  to  talk.  I  have 
nothing  to  ask  you." 

"Ignace,"  whispered  Zephire,  meaning  Zoppi,  the 
detective;  "don't  let  Ignace  bring  a  doctor." 

"My  dear  fellow,  fear  not.  For  what  doctor  would 
come?  If  I  were  a  doctor,  Zephire,  I  would  no  more 
attend  you  than  I  would  a  dog  with  the  mange.  What 
you  want  is  a  surgeon,  to  open  a  vein.  Don't  try  to 
get  well;  you  would  go  straight  to  the  penitentiary. 
Whereas  dying  you  avoid  discharge  as  a  cashier,  and 

193 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

leave  the  name  of  Durel  still,  on  its  public  side,  unde- 
filed.  The  devotion  of  our  former  slave,  Ovide,  has 
saved  that  name." 

Zephire  flashed.  "You  have  borrowed,"  he  whis 
pered,  "from  that  nigger?" 

"I  have  borrowed  from  that  nigger.  Your  help 
without  his  would  not  be  enough,  nor  his  without 
yours,  Ignace  has  gone  for  Pascal"  [the  bank's  no 
tary].  "You  will  make  over  to " 

Zephire  whispered  again.  "I  will  leave  all  I  have  to 
Rosalie  if  you  will  swear  not  to  give  her  to — that 
hound." 

The  answering  smile  was  benign.  "When  I  prom 
ise,  it  will  be  to  myself,  not  to  you,  and  above  all  not 
that.  You  will  make  over  to  the  bank  whatever  you 
legally  possess.  It  will  lighten  your  infamy.  Ignace 
and  Pascal  will  attend  to  that;  I  go  to  call  another 
meeting  of  our  board,  to  consider  the  election  of  a 
new  cashier,  the  old  one  being  at  the  point  of  death. 
I  lay  this  revolver  on  your  beautiful  mantelpiece.  It 
still  has  several  loads.  Next  time  I  see  you  I  trust  it 
will  have  at  least  one  less.  You  know  your  old  rule 
of  business,  a  very  good  one,  eh?  'Do  it  now.'" 


194 


XXXI 
TO  DIE  OR  TO  FLY? 

ZEPHIRE  knew  his  hurts  were  trivial.  Keen  pains 
attended  certain  movements  and  on  one  side  he  could 
not  lie;  but  a  physician  on  the  sidewalk  had  said  that 
the  broken  rib  was  back  in  place  and  that  after  a 
night's  rest,  with  an  arm  in  a  sling,  he  could  return  to 
work.  So  now  he  began  to  plan,  not  for  work,  but 
flight.  Ignace,  he  pondered,  was  bringing  Pascal  to 
enable  him  to  make  assignment  of  his  assets  to  the 
bank.  Very  well,  after  a  show  of  revolt  he  would 
make  it;  given  under  duress,  it  would  be  worthless  and 
his  cousin  knew  that  fact  so  well  that  to  ignore  it 
meant  that  he,  Zephire,  would  for  reward  be  allowed 
to  leave  the  country,  and  his  case  be  hushed  up  by 
the  board.  Compounding  a  felony  is  risky,  but,  "  Skin 
for  skin,  what  will  a  board  not  do  for  its  bank?" 
In  the  way  lay  but  one  obstacle — Castleton,  grand 
juryman.  If  Zephire  knew  that  sort  of  reptile,  it  was 
just  the  sort  to  rise  squarely  between  him  and  the 
bank  and  drive  him  into  open  court. 

A  step  creaked  on  the  stair,  a  knuckle  tapped  the 
door,  and  when  he  called  "Entrez"  there  entered 
neither  Ignace  nor  Pascal,  but  Judge  Castleton.  He 
came  and  stood  by  the  bed. 

195 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Zephire  lay  on  his  back.  The  two  looked  long  at 
each  other.  Then  the  judge  remarked:  "My  grandson 
has  no  idea  that  I  am  here." 

The  cashier  loathingly  closed  his  eyelids. 

"I  am  here  in  the  common  interest;  yours,  ours,  all." 

"All,  humph!    I  know  where  you  think  you  come 


in." 


"Yes?    Then  we  needn't  mention  names." 

"She'll  have  not  a  sou  left.    And  neither  Rosalie." 

"That's  all  right." 

"What  you  want  with  me?" 

"To  put  at  your  disposal,  free,  my  professional  ad 
vice.  Accepting  it,  you  can  probably  keep  this  thing 
quiet  right  where  it  is." 

Zephire  was  suddenly  fierce.  "Damn  the  quiet! 
Alphonse  Durel — he  sent  you  here,  eh?" 

"No,  he  merely  knows  I'm  here.  I  thought  you 
might  consider  it  wise  to  transfer  whatever  you  have 
— other  than— travelling  expenses — to  the  bank." 

The  cashier  smiled  savagely.  "  Damn  the  bank,  too. 
All  I've  got  egceb' — humph ! — on  what  condition  ?  " 

"Without  condition,  and  also  free  from  duress." 

"That  is  your  advice?" 

"You  haven't  asked  my  advice." 

"Well,  I  h-ask  it." 

"Then  I  advise  it." 

"An"  if  Irif-use?" 

"You  know  as  well  as  I,  maybe  better." 

"Yes.     Jail,  criminal  court,  striped  suit,  eh?" 

"That's  your  own  answer,  not  mine." 
196 


TO  DIE  OR  TO  FLY? 

"  Any'ow  they  cann'  hang  me.    I  will  make  no  will ! " 

"How  about  a  sale?  'For  one  dollar  and  other 
valuable  considerations,  the  receipt  of  which  is 
hereby '?" 

Zephire  motioned  assent.  He  knew  that  if  he  did 
this,  the  quicker  he  did  it  the  better.  At  another 
beckon  his  visitor  pushed  a  button  and  the  room  filled 
with  light.  The  judge  found  writing  materials  and  in 
a  short  time  the  whole  matter  was  accomplished. 

"No,  leave  the  light,"  said  the  cashier  as  the  judge 
rose  to  go.  Once  more  alone,  he  slowly  gathered  re 
solve. 

By  and  by  he  slipped  from  the  bed,  crossed  the 
room,  returned  with  the  pistol  and  lay  down  again. 
He  had  long  regarded  suicide  as  a  matter  of  course 
should  he  be  found  out.  "Pop!" — and  without  time 
for  one  pang  of  agony  the  penitentiary,  with  all  its 
horrors,  its  long,  long  death  by  torture,  would  be 
checkmated.  "Brave  fellow!"  the  clubs  would  say, 
"his  faults  were  on  the  side  of  his  affections.  No 
hypocrite  he,  and  how  generous  a  spender!  Had  no 
church  superstitions;  will  sleep  without  dreams  for 


ever." 


But  here,  now,  an  open  door  barred  the  way — this 
unlooked-for  liberty  to  fly  and  live,  leaving  the  secret 
of  his  crime  an  abiding  secret  behind  him.  There  were 
havens  far  roomier  and  far  more  interesting  than  the 
grave,  and  his  fancy  heard  a  more  agreeable  encomium 
in  the  clubs:  "Was  it  a  shortage  in  the  bank?  No, 
the  bank's  all  right;  but  his  splendid  pride  could  not 

197 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

endure  the  humiliation  of  that  street  fiasco.    Louisiana 
was  too  tame  for  Zephire." 

And  so  his  purpose  hung,  while  suspense  forced  in 
upon  him  the  thought,  what  a  faint  twitch  of  one 
finger-joint  there  was  between  tragedy  and  farce,  the 
terrible  and  the  contemptible.  To  be  or  not  to  be? 
He  had  the  pluck  for  either  choice.  Through  several 
minutes  he  lay  motionless  save  for  an  abstracted  toy 
ing  with  the  weapon  where  it  rested  in  his  palm,  against 
his  thigh.  Now,  however,  with  eyes  closed,  he  gradu 
ally  brought  it  to  his  temple  and  held  it  there,  none 
the  less  in  earnest  because  his  hand  was  without  a 
tremor.  Yet  the  trigger  was  untouched,  and  presently 
with  eyes  still  closed  he  let  the  deadly  thing  creep  back 
to  his  side.  Soon,  however,  it  returned,  this  time  with 
alacrity,  a  finger  on  the  trigger.  For  another  footfall 
was  on  the  stair,  heavy,  masculine,  imperative.  Had 
he  been  tricked,  and  by  a  Castle  ton?  And  was  this 
his  last  chance  to  die  unshackled  and  by  choice  ?  His 
lips  and  eyes  closed  tighter;  no  minion  of  the  law 
should  cross  his  floor  and  find  him  alive.  There  came 
a  touch  on  the  knob,  and  a  familiar  voice  spoke  his 
name.  He  slipped  the  pistol  out  of  sight,  still  holding 
it,  and  said:  "Come  in." 

Swift  entered,  his  partner  on  the  cotton  exchange. 
He  dropped  a  word  of  pity  as  he  drew  near,  but  then 
smiled  a  frank  vexation.  "Zephire,  what  did  you  do 
it  for?  You've  made  a  dainty  mess,  haven't  you? 
Never  mind,  here's  a  proposition  that  will  lighten  my 
load  anyhow." 

198 


TO  DIE  OR  TO  FLY? 

On  the  pillow  Zephire's  head  rocked  in  weary  dis 
sent. 

"  Now,  none  of  that ! "  snapped  his  friend.  "  I'm  not 
asking  you  what  you'd  like,  I'm  telling  you  what 
you've  got  to  do  and  do  quick.  You've  got  to  sell  out 
your  partnership  to  me  under  date  of  a  month  ago. 
I'm  a  law-abiding  citizen,  running  my  business  for 
dollars  and  cents  and  as  undamnably  as  I — "  He 
ceased  and  sank  to  the  bed,  staring,  as  Zephire  gasped: 

"All  gone.  Gone!  The  bank- 
Swift  sprang  up.  "You — you've  been  swindling 
your  own  bank  ?  Hell !  Why  didn't  I  see  that  long  ago 
when  I  first  smelt  it?  Now  your  board's  got  on  to 
it  and  you've  bought  their  silence  at  my  expense! 
Well,  we'll  see !  They've  got  to  cough  up  my  share  of 
you  or  there  won't  be  any  silence !" 

"Wait !"  cried  Zephire,  rising  painfully  on  an  elbow. 
"Stop!"  But  the  door  slammed  and  he  was  once 
more  alone. 

Again  he  pondered.  All  the  mental  torture  that 
his  partner's  rude  visit  had  in  degree  lifted,  fell  on 
him  again  like  a  redoubled  hurricane.  Once  more  he 
set  the  pistol  to  his  temple,  but  held  it  there  moment 
after  moment  while  a  new  realization  dawned  on  him 
— that  his  nerve  was  gone.  Then  head,  hand,  and 
weapon  dropped  to  the  pillow,  his  face  turned  into  it 
and  he  writhed  and  wept  like  a  girl.  Now  he  listened. 
The  procession  of  callers  was  not  quite  ended. 

A  soft  knock,  a  woman's,  reached  his  ear.  He  lis 
tened  on.  It  came  again  but  he  made  no  sound.  The 

199 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

visitor  tiptoed  in.  His  face  was  to  the  wall.  With  a 
knee  on  the  bed  she  leaned  over  him  and  spoke  a  favo 
rite  Creole  pet  name:  "Bibi !" 

Espying  the  pistol,  still  in  his  clutch,  she  warily 
fingered  it.  "Bibi,  it  is  your  Philomele.  I've  come  to 
take  care  of  you,  dear  boy;  to  take  you  away  out  of 
all  this  trouble."  She  touched  the  pistol,  but  his 
grasp  on  it  tightened.  "I  know,  Bibi,  what  has  hap 
pened.  I  was  in  St.  Charles  Street,  at  the  ticket- 
office,  when  you  and  Zoppi  went  by  in  the  taxi. "  She 
softly  worked  a  better  hold  on  the  pistol.  "That 
Landry  wench  had  warned  me  of  the  grand  jury  and 
told  me  to  leave  town.  So  I  spoke  for  two  reserva 
tions — for  Mexico  City,  to-morrow  morning.  Wasn't 
that  right,  Bibi?" 

The  head  in  the  pillow  nodded.  WTiile  she  spoke 
she  had  gradually  pried  the  weapon  from  his  hold;  now 
she  concealed  it  in  her  bosom. 


200 


XXXII    . 
BILOXI  AGAIN 

IN  his  Biloxi  cottage  M.  Durel  lay  sick  in  body  and 
soul. 

Another  president  filled  his  chair  at  the  bank. 
Monsieur  could  not  let  his  eyes  close  without  seeing 
him  there,  except  when,  instead,  he  saw  his  Esplanade 
Avenue  home  posted:  "For  Sale."  His  physician 
had  urged  a  change  to  some  far-away  scene,  quiet  with 
out  Biloxi's  dulness  or  the  New  Orleans  newspapers. 
Physicians,  however,  rarely  furnish  funds. 

On  the  third  day  of  his  stay,  though  a  mist  was 
driving  and  cold  whitecaps  were  on  the  water, 
madame  persuaded  him  to  leave  his  bed  for  a  window 
looking  seaward.  So  far  so  good  !  And  when  Sunday 
came,  blue  and  balmy,  he  was  further  lured  by  Rosalie 
to  walk  with  her  under  the  live-oaks  and  cedars  on 
the  shore  bluffs,  and  by  and  by  on  the  white  beach, 
under  their  fringe  of  dwarfed  pines.  There,  all  at 
once,  in  a  lonely  spot  between  the  highway  and  the 
water,  he  came  to  a  most  unwilling  halt  between  two 
men — the  two  Castletons. 

With  much  dignity  the  couples  exchanged  greetings, 
the  judge  promptly  explaining  that  their  errand  was 
to  monsieur  only,  and  a  business  matter  which  they 
hoped  would  prove  welcome.  They  begged  that  the 

201 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

walk  be  not  interrupted,  and  when  so  invited  turned 
and  walked  with  the  Creole  pair,  Rosalie  and  the  judge 
leading. 

"And  your  daughter's  gone?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Yes,  off  for  the  Mediterranean  and  the  great  East." 
The  judge  went  into  particulars. 

Rosalie  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  "I  couldn't  do 
that.  I  would  be  bound  to  stop  some  place  in  that 
war !  Miss  Castleton  must  be  of  a  great  imagination 
and  a  great  benevolence  to  remember  those  heathen 
in  Asia  while  that  suffering  in  Europe  is  so  terrible!" 

"Ah,"  said  the  judge,  "that's  what  Philip  and  I 
were  saying,  or  Philip  saying  to  me,  not  an  hour 
ago;  that  his  aunt  has  just  the  kind  of  imagina 
tion  and  benevolence  to  discriminate,  habitually  and 
on  principle,  in  favor  of  the  commonly  overlooked." 
He  ran  on  about  her.  By  some  delicate  indirection  he 
made  it  plain  that  she  had  left  the  city  without  hearing 
the  things  it  would  have  so  pained  her  to  hear.  She 
had  not  seen  the  morning  paper  as  she  was  embarking, 
and  even  if  she  had,  the  paper  had  treated  the  bank 
gently  and  the  street  scuffle  without  names. 

"You  will  not  mind,"  he  interrupted  himself  to 
ask,  "my  harping  a  bit  on  my  own  folks,  will  you, 
when  I  can  say  pleasant  things?" 

"Ah !    If  pleasant  to  you,  to  me  like-wise." 

"I  was  going  to  speak  of  Philip." 

"Yes?  Well?  Even  Zephire,  I  would  be  glad  to 
hear  about — if  pleasant  to  you.  He's  left  the  city,  I 
believe,  Zephire,  eh?  That's  a  fortunate  coincidence 

202 


BILOXI  AGAIN 

for  every -body.  Well,  even  any  result  from  that  diffi 
culty  in  the  street,  I  would  be  glad  to  hear  about/' 

"It's  pleasant — to  tell.  It's  altered  public  senti 
ment  toward  Phil  greatly.  He  can't  walk  half  a 
square  without  having  to  accept  some  jovial,  unex 
plained  handshake." 

" Because  he  was  willing  to  fight!"  prompted  the 
girl. 

"Yes,  or  rather  just  as  good  for  a  fight  as  if  willing. 
As  to  his  unlucky  theories,  you  know " 

"Yes,  I  know.    Well,  about  those?" 

"Why,  they  seem  almost  forgotten.  Nearly  any 
theory,  mademoiselle,  will  be  tolerated  in  a  brave 
man." 

"Yes!  Ah,  yes!  If  he  takes  care  not  to  practise 
them!" 

"Oh,"  said  the  judge,  "preaching  or  practising,  any 
public  would  rather  have  us  dauntless  and  ever  so 
wrong  than  craven  and  ever  so  right." 

"  Truly !  And  we  women  we  are  just  like  that  pub- 
He!" 

Rosalie  quickened  her  step;  a  conversation  going  on 
behind  her,  fitfully  overheard,  began  to  be  embarrass 
ing.  Monsieur  had  opened  it  with  a  few  fervid  sen 
tences  telling  how,  while  he  was  still  in  his  official  seat 
with  his  resignation  before  the  board,  Zephire's  Caron- 
delet  Street  partner,  being  let  in,  had  demanded  an 
instant  arrangement  with  them  on  his  own  terms  and 
had  been  firmly  refused  it,  he,  Alphonse  Durel,  being 
the  first  to  say  no.  So  defied,  the  man,  monsieur  had 

203 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

gone  on  to  tell,  had,  in  revenge,  poured  out  into  the 
street  the  secret  of  Zephire's  crime  and  flight,  and  all 
was  over ! 

"No,  not  all,"  Philip  put  in.  "It's  just  as  widely 
known  and  told  that  you  assumed  far  more  blame 
than  was  fairly  yours;  that  you've  covered  your 
cashier's  shortages  dollar  for  dollar;  that  you'd  still  be 
in  your  chair  had  it  not  been  coveted  by  one  of  your 
board,  who,  after  all,  did  not  get  it;  and  that  you 
retire  newly  honored,  a  poor  man." 

"  Poorer,  sir,  than  a  priest,  an'  mother  an'  daughter 
the  same !  Be  please'  to  notiz'  that !" 

Philip  reddened:  "We're  not  overlooking  that,  sir. 
Now  let  me  state  our  errand — which  it  didn't  seem 
good  to  do  by  letter.  We,  the  judge  and  I,  with  others, 
have  mentioned  you  for  the  presidency  of  that  new 
bank,  you  know — around  in — yes.  It's  small,  but  it's 
solid,  and  with  the  present  business  outlook  and  with 
you  at  its  head " 

Monsieur  was  giving  his  head  a  steady  negative 
shake  while  in  turn  he  grew  red.  "An'  will  you  per- 
mid  me  to  inquire  who  author-ize'  you  to  mention  me 
for  that?" 

"Mr.  Durel,  the  conditions  of  the  case  authorized 
us." 

The  banker  lifted  his  brows,  but  the  young  man 
pressed  on: 

"You  know  that  this  whole  exposure  has  come  di 
rectly  out  of  our  contact  with  you  and  your  family. 
It  would  be  as  unworthy  for  us  to  shut  our  eyes  to 

204 


BILOXI  AGAIN 

that  fact  as  if — however  blamelessly  to  either  side,  you 
in  your  motor-car  and  we  in  ours ' 

Monsieur's  elbows  went  out  with  palms  spread. 
"We  are  no  longer  of  the  motor-car  aristocracy." 

" — You  in  yours  and  we  in  ours/'  Philip  untactfully 
persisted,  "we  had  crashed  into  you  and  wrecked  you." 

As  briefly  as  the  sound  could  be  uttered  monsieur 
said,  "Ah!"  Without  loss  of  dignity  his  whole  man 
ner  implied  that  the  excuse  was  as  offensive  as  the 
trespass.  Then  he  added  the  four  short  words  to 
which  he  had  intended  to  limit  his  reply:  "Sir,  I  muz' 
die-line!"  But  as  they  came  they  started  a  quiver  of 
sick  nerves  that  impelled  him  to  speak  on:  "Those 
condition'  of  the  caze  they  are  likewise  my  egscuze; 
biccause  they  have  projuze'  such  ril-ation'  bitwin  uz 
that  there  cannot  come  to  me  now  any  favor  from  one 
of  yo'  name  without  a  price  which  I  cannod  allow  my- 
seff  even  to  spick  ab-out." 

There  it  was  that  Rosalie  and  the  judge  turned  aside 
and  let  the  other  two  pass  on. 

The  cut  of  Zephire's  whip  across  his  eyes  had  not 
stung  Philip  worse  than  did  these  words.  When  one 
must  restrain  his  rage,  however,  one  restrains  it.  The 
high-tempered  youth  even  smiled — bitterly — as  he 
said: 

"You  mean  there's  a  *  string'  to  that  proposition?" 

"My  dear  sir" — they  halted — "you  cann'  priv-end 
that." 

"Beg  pardon,  I  can,  sir.  My — my  sentiment  I 
admit.  It  is  immovable,  invincible.  But  that  I 

205 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

should  string  it  to  an  offer  of  rescue — no,  sir,  hear  me 
through,  if  you  please — if  I  don't  resent  such  a  thought 
it's  because  resentment  is  not  my  business  here  to-day. 
I'm  here  staring  the  fact  in  the  face,  that  this  offer 
assures  you  the  retention  of  your  family  undivided  in 
one  home,  which,  all  things  considered,  I  can  never 
again  let  myself  enter.  On  the  other  hand,  should 
you  reject  this  offer,  you  know,  and  I  know,  that  your 
daughter  will  probably  seek  a  livelihood  away  from 
home.  Now,  Mr.  Durel,  as  sure  as  she  does  I  shall 
court  her  as  ardently  and  as  perseveringly  as  she  will 
allow." 

The  parent  attempted  a  gay  gesture.  "An'  tha'z 
all?" 

"Not  quite.  I  may  be  Quixotic,  sir,  or  otherwise 
self -deluded;  lovers  often  are;  but  we — he  yonder  and 
I — proffer  you,  all  three,  these  amends  for  coming  into 
your  lives  so  disastrously;  it's  the  best  we  can  do." 

"An'  you  don'  call  that  disaztrouz  to  you?" 

"No,  sir,  I'm  profited!  I  shan't  perish  for  losing 
your  daughter;  I  can  do  her  better  honor.  Come  what 
may,  fail  what  may,  I'll  see  to  it  that  I'm  better  profited 
to  have  loved  her — to  love  her  yet  and  go  unmated  all 
my  days — than  not  to  have  known  and  loved  her. 
I'm  done!" 

"Mr.  Cazzleton " 

"No,  there's  one  thing  yet.  We're  empowered  to 
tell  you  that  if  you  want  time  before  replying,  for  re 
flection,  or  inquiry,  or  rest,  you  can  have  it." 

Monsieur  said  nothing.  They  walked  again,  but 
206 


BILOXI  AGAIN 

back  toward  the  cottage.  Rosalie  and  the  judge  fol 
lowed.  Philip  could  hear  their  comments  on  the  sur 
rounding  scene:  That  the  sands,  the  pines,  were  still 
odorous  from  their  long  sun-bath;  that  the  waters 
licked  the  beach  as  a  sated  monster  might  lick  one's 
hand;  that  out  seaward  they  danced  in  all  the  colors 
of  the  sun's  decline,  and  that  the  great  sand-keys  far 
beyond,  though  shining  like  silver,  could  be  seen  only 
when  the  eye  sought  them  out. 

The  backward  listener  could  hear  Rosalie  best. 
Possibly  she  willed  it  so,  though  the  judge  and  the 
view  appeared  to  occupy  her  whole  mind.  "  Nature  !" 
she  said.  "One  cause  that  I  love  nature  is  that  she 
never  cares  what  you  feel  like — and  then  you  brace 
up!" 

Her  father  heard;  he  looked  around  on  nature. 

"You  may  take  a  month,"  said  Philip,  but  still  won 
no  reply. 

After  another  minute  the  banker  produced  a  letter, 
as  if  to  speak  of  it,  but  a  bend  in  the  path  brought  into 
near  view  the  pretty  red-roofed  pavilion  at  the  shore 
end  of  his  wrecked  boardwalk.  Some  one  sitting  there 
rose. 

"Stay,  we  are  coming!"  called  monsieur.  It  was 
his  mother.  The  five  sat  down  together.  He  handed 
her  the  letter.  "Tha'z  what  I  receive'  laz'  night,  but" 
— he  smiled — "I  had  not  then  the  nerve  to  show  it 
you." 

She  read  it  silently.  At  the  first  line  tears  filled  her 
•*  eyes,  but  she  dried  them,  bending  stubbornly  to  the 

207 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

page.  Fresh  ones  sprang,  but  she  read  on  as  she  wiped 
them  away.  When  the  Castletons  would  have  risen 
she  smiled  through  the  drops  and  put  out  an  impera 
tive  hand.  "No  !  rim-ain !" 

The  letter  was  short;  she  must  have  read  it  a  third 
time  before  she  folded  it,  saying  through  more  tears: 

"Well— avter  all— tha'z  good/' 

Rosalie  reached  for  it.  She  read  it  standing,  her 
back  to  the  company,  while  her  father  told  the  Cas 
tletons  its  purport.  The  home,  the  Esplanade  home, 
was  gone,  was  sold.  But  it  was  well  sold,  so  well  that 
he  could  now  seek  that  far-off  quiet  the  doctors  had 
urged  on  him. 

"I  shall  go  at  ones/* 

"Not  alone!"  said  the  daughter. 

"No,  you  with  me;  or,  I  will  say,  me  with  you." 
To  the  judge  he  tapped  his  breast.  "For  me  any 
plaze  will  do;  but  for  Rosalie,  dit-ermin'  on  a  carreer, 
an'  Paris  in  thad  war,  the  only  Mecca — tha'z  New 
York,  eh?" 

"0-o-oh!"  cried  madame,  "going  ad  New  York  for 
quiet!" 

"My  dear  mother,  if  there  is  in  thad  worP  a  city 
capable  to  make  as  much  uzeless  noise  as  New  Orleans 
I  promiz'  you  to  kip  away  from  there !" 

"Ah-h-h!  an'  thad  climade!  in  Febwerie!" 

"My  dear,  'tis  not  for  me  there  in  Febwerie  I  shud 
der;  'tis  for  Rosalie  in  that  all-the-year-roun'  zero 
of  the  soul  in  thad  furnaze-roazted  civilization.  My 
only  hope  'tis  thad  the  firz'  snuff  of  that  will  sen'  her 

208 


BILOXI  AGAIN 

back  to  Louisiana !"  This  last  remark  was  to  the 
Castletons. 

"Amen,"  murmured  Philip. 

"Gen'lemen,"  said  monsieur,  "I  will  thing  abboud 
that  offer  an'  telegraph  you — egscuse  me  a  mo 
ment " 

A  servant  from  the  cottage  hovered  near;  the  master 
stepped  away  to  confer  with  him.  As  he  returned  he 
noted  a  small  fact,  a  mere  refinement  of  good  faith, 
which  awoke  his  magnanimity.  In  this  moment  of 
parting — for  weeks,  months,  it  might  be  for  years — 
the  lover  of  Rosalie  stood  conversing  not  with  her  but 
with  madame,  the  judge  with  Rosalie.  They  had  al 
ready  begun  to  offer  their  adieus. 

"Ah!"  said  the  son  and  father,  "but  come  a  mo 
ment  in,  for  a  glazz  of  wine !"  and  madame  echoed  the 
invitation. 

The  Castletons  were  full  of  thanks,  but  "  feared  there 
was  hardly  time"  and  went  away  down  the  beach 
road,  toward  the  nearest  white  post  of  the  coast  trolley- 
cars. 


209 


XXXIII 
THE  SIEGE  OF  NEW  YORK 

"A  CAREER!    Oh!    H'mm!" 

"Yes,  in  New  York  to  fine  how  to  enter  the  carreer 
of  a  stage-singer.  Naturally  my  daughter  she  firz' 
muz1  fine  the  entranze,  eh?" 

"Not  at  all.  She  must  first  be  so  fit  that  the  en 
trance  will  come  running  to  find  her.  If  she's  not, 
then  her  problem  isn't  how  to  find  the  entrance;  there 
ain't  any;  it's  to  break  in,  suffragette  fashion,  anyhow, 
anywhere.  What  fame  has  the  young  lady  at  home, 
in  Frisco?" 

"In  New  Orleans,  sir!  Well,  her  wide  sozial  cir- 
cle " 

"Doesn't  count  for  a  cent.    What  else?" 

"Why,  eh" — monsieur  told  of  his  daughter's  choir 
services. 

"That  doesn't  count  half  a  cent.  Can  you  sit  down, 
Miss,  at  that  piano,  and  sing  me  a  song,  now  ?  Oh ! 
Fatigued." 

(She  would  as  soon  have  sung  in  the  street,  for  cop 
pers.) 

"Fatigued — h'mm!  How  hard  can  you  work?  Do 
you  know  that  out  of  whole  hundreds  who,  like  you, 

210 


THE  SIEGE  OF  NEW  YORK 

come  here  with  marvellous  voices  and  beauty,  only 
one  or  two  ever  pull  through  the  grinding  toil  of  the 
thing?  Have  you  ever  given  as  much  as  one  recital, 
yourself?" 

One  couldn't  swallow  everything: 

"Sir,  my  daughter  has  never  been  under  thad  ne- 
cezzity!" 

The  pair  met  an  amazing  amount  of  a  certain  kind 
ness,  but  also  a  certain  amount  of  amazing  rudeness. 

"How  does  the  young  lady  stand  in  your  own  news 
papers?" 

"  Sir,  a  young  lady  of  Creole  f amilie,  she  don't  stan' 
in  those  newspaper' — ah!  unlezz  maybe  she  stoop'  so 
far  to  those  corrup'  pragtises  of  social  modernity  thad 
they  publizh  her  photo-graph — queen  of  carnival  ball." 

"Oh!  Carnival!  I'd  like  to  see  that  just  once. 
But  you  people — why  don't  you  cut  out  that  paste 
board  antique?" 

"Cutout?    Pasteboard?    Cut  out— thad  carnival  ?" 

"Certainly !  Break  your  toys  and  grow  up !  Why, 
that  papier-mache  splendor  is  a  hundred  years  behind 
the  times.  It  advertises  you  as  a  city  to  see  once  over 
night  instead  of  a  city  to  live  in.  At  work  or  at  play, 
a  great  city  ought  to  be  legitimate  drama  as  far  as  it 
can  be;  ought  to  be  its  own  great  self.  See?  Now, 
don't  take  offense  where  none  is  meant.  First  rule  of 
politeness,  ain't  it?" 

"In  thiz  country,  yes — if  nod  the  only!  My  dear 
sir,  if  thad  whole  polide  country  want  to  come  at  our 
city  a  night  or  day  an'  go  away  forever,  they  can 

211 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

come,  they  can  go;  but  we,  papier-mache  an'  all,  we'll 
live  there  as  we  like,  the  most  incomparable  city  in 
Ammerica!" 

"H'rnm,  without  a  doubt!  Well,  young  lady,  I 
don't  see  anything  for  you.  A  stage-singer !  How 
old  are  you?" 

The  father  sprang  to  his  feet  speechless,  but  the  fel 
low  went  on  poking  things  into  pigeonholes  while  say 
ing:  "Oh,  she  needn't  tell.  Patti  was  a  public  singer 
here  at  seven.  Ellen  Terry  was  acting  in  London  at 
eight.  That  makes  you  rather  tardy,  don't  it  ?  Now. 
if  you  wanted  a  job  I'd  say  let  those  people  whose  yacht 
you  were  on  last  year  have  you  sing  in  their  drawing- 
rooms,  say  for  the  Belgian  sufferers  or  something. 
There's  an  inch  that  may  get  you  an  ell,  though  you've 
come  at  the  wrong  end  of  the  season." 

The  career-seekers  took  the  suggestion  under  advise 
ment,  but  went  on  seeking  the  golden  spoon.  "  Where 
there's  a  will  there's  a  way,"  insisted  the  daughter,  but 
unluckily  the  father's  will  was  the  other  way.  They 
found  women  in  careers — of  one  sort  and  another,  but 
every  such  woman  seemed  to  have  broken  in  or  climbed 
over  or  crept  under.  "You  can  do  neither,  Rose,  your 
gifts  forbid!" 

Some  of  the  lucky  ones  were  young  and  handsome, 
many  were  Southerners;  yet  with  all  their  breaking  in, 
climbing,  or  creeping,  luck  had  never  come  by  assault, 
only  by  siege,  often  years  of  siege;  and  none  could  tell 
how  you  do  it.  They  could  only  assure  the  fair  Creole 
that  she  couldn't  do  her  sort  of  thing  their  way. 

212 


THE  SIEGE  OF  NEW  YORK 

"Thank  God,  no!"  said  monsieur  after  each  inter 
view.  A  career  involved — ah,  what  not !  Unwoman- 
liness?  Oh,  no!  Yet  both  father  and  daughter  saw 
that  from  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  lucky  ones  there  was 
gone — as  an  early  instalment  of  the  career's  price — a 
bloom  which  had  not  yet  begun  to  leave  her  grand 
mother. 

That  beloved  lady !  That  sweet  wonder  of  enduring 
youth!  Her  daily  letters  to  Rosalie  were  from  the 
humble,  not  to  say  pinched,  dwelling  of  an  up-town 
Ducatel  couple,  bowed  parents  of  the  bank-teller  who, 
on  Zephire's  flight,  had  been  allowed,  by  bank  and 
grand  jury  alike,  to  drop  out  of  employment  into  obliv 
ion.  She  wrote  of  days  made  strenuous,  and  thereby 
relieved  of  all  loneliness,  through  the  pursuit  of  a 
scheme  hit  upon  entirely  since  being  left  to  herself — 
hit  upon  not  by  herself,  but  laid  before  her  by  Ovide 
through  his  wife  and  his  sister-in-law  Euphrosine. 

On  leaving  for  New  York  monsieur  had  given  ma- 
dame  carte  blanche  to  carry  out,  under  any  modifica 
tions  acceptable  to  her  and  the  bank,  an  agreement 
with  it  by  which  the  contents  of  their  home  were  to  be 
sold  at  auction  to  realize  to  the  bank  the  appraisement 
set  on  them  in  his  statement  of  his  assets.  But  hardly 
had  he  and  Rosalie  reached  their  Mecca  when  the  proj 
ect  which  madame  knew  no  better  than  to  call  Ovide's 
was  brought  to  her,  showing  such  an  alluring  radiance 
on  each  and  all  of  so  many  sides — a  Durel  side,  a  bank 
side,  a  Ducatel,  a  grand  jury,  and  an  Ovide  side,  if  not 
others — that  she  had  got  it  fairly  under  way  in  one 

213 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

forenoon.  And  here  is  how  it  had  come  into  being 
and  what  it  had  come  to  be: 

In  his  parental  home  the  well-chastened  bank-teller, 
Ducatel,  lay  as  he  had  fallen,  to  speak  in  figures,  his 
spirit  too  broken  to  stir  a  wing,  until  Mme.  Durel,  with 
that  feminine  power  which  lifts  so  many  thousands  of 
the  male  kind  by  a  word  and  bids  them  rise  and  walk, 
bade  him  go  "ad  the  fo'eman  of  thad  gran'  jury;  tha'z 
a  Mr. — eh — "  She  tapped  her  brow  in  sweet  pretense 
until  the  teller  supplied  the  name 

"Yes!  Cazzleton;  an'  tell  him  if  his  gran'  jury  let 
you  al-lone  you  fine  some  honez'  work  an'  rip-ort  to 
him — to  them — every  sigs  week'  or  so  oftten  as  they 
want!" 

"Judge,"  said  Philip  that  evening,  "DucatePs  been 
to  see  me."  He  stated  the  teller's  proposition.  "I 
told  him  I'd  submit  it  to  all  concerned;  judge,  district 
attorney,  jury,  bank;  that  it  was  no  light  matter  to 
ask  the  law's  administrators  to  be  extra-legal,  but  that 
I  believed  in  it  and  had  been  thinking  of  it  myself  from 
day  to  day." 

"I  don't  doubt  you  could  have  said  night  and  day." 

Philip's  only  reply  was  to  stare  absently,  until  he  re 
sumed:  "I  told  him  his  case  would  be  far  stronger  if 
he  could  name  some  work  in  which  he  could  at  once 
begin." 

"He  couldn't,  I  suppose." 

"No-o-o !  No !  But  when  I  went  to  see  Ovide 
Landry  I  gave  him  a  plan  to  propose  in  his  own 

214 


THE  SIEGE  OF  NEW  YORK 

name,  keeping  us  out  of  sight  as — yes — as  before."' 
("Before"  signified  that  private  transaction  which  on 
the  day  of  Zephire's  downfall  had  taken  these  two  to 
Ovide's  rear  room  and  had  kept  Ovide  so  long  in  the 
bank  president's  office.) 

The  plan,  as  told  to  the  smiling  judge  and  as  sub 
mitted  next  morning  to  madame  by  Ovide's  wife  and 
sister-in-law,  was  to  make  the  teller  a  dealer  in  an 
tiques.  In  the  old  rue  Royale,  near  enough  to  the 
Chartres  Street  bookman's  place  for  his  supervision,  a 
shop  would  be  rented,  stocked  with  the  furniture, 
books,  china,  and  whatever  rich  belongings  of  the 
Durel  home  and  Zephire's  rooms  were  to  have  gone  to 
auction,  and  the  teller  put  in  charge.  For  this  he  was 
connoisseur  enough  to  qualify;  it  was  through  his  taste 
for  books,  arts,  and  crafts  that  he  had  been  drawn  into 
his  entanglement  with  his  absconded  kinsman. 

Wherefore,  light-heartedly  wrote  madame  to  her  dear 
far-aways,  the  only  auction  engaging  her  activities  was 
bridge,  to  which  their  absence  had  driven  her !  Small 
evening  card-parties  frequently  rounded  off  the  busy 
days  and  made  them,  but  for  the  absence  of  her  pil 
grims,  as  happy  as  any  she  had  ever  known.  This 
Rosalie  understood  better  than  her  father,  through  a 
lengthy  postscript  which  she  instinctively  kept  unread 
to  him — had  he  not  problems  enough  already? — and 
which  told  of  an  unexpected  meeting,  at  one  of  these 
dissipations,  with  Judge  Castleton.  She  chanced  to 
cut  him  as  bridge  partner  and  later  had  permitted  him 
to  walk  home  with  her.  Thi?  carefully  humorous  pas- 

215 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

sage  Rosalie  read  locked  in  her  hotel  room,  where  tears 
could  flow  without  shame  and  themselves  take  part 
in  the  reading  and  rereading.  Where  also,  without 
the  weariness  of  drying  her  eyes,  she  could  write  long 
answers  which  answered  everything  without  once  men 
tioning  a  Castleton.  Oh,  the  bitter-sweetness  of  com 
muning,  though  with  half  a  continent  between,  with 
one  who  knew  all  about  love — a  girl's  love — even  yet. 
Even  yet ! 


XXXIV 
SIEGE  RAISED 

THE  southbound  letters  were,  of  course,  much  more 
than  bare  replies.  Their  writer  told  of  the  drawn  face 
her  father  betrayed  when  alone  with  her,  and  of  his 
disappointment  in  hopes  that  some  one  of  these  New 
York  financiers  whom  he  had  long  known  by  corre 
spondence,  their  yachting  acquaintance  of  the  previous 
summer,  for  instance,  might  on  closer  contact  offer  him 
some  New  Orleans  alliance,  some  branch  work  there, 
better  than  the  presidency  of  Philip  Castleton's  infant 
bank.  On  this  disappointment,  she  wrote,  he  was  so 
kind  as  to  lay  all  the  blame  of  his  unrest,  but  that  she 
knew  well  it  was  her  own  case,  from  whatever  side  re 
garded,  that  mainly  racked  him. 

However,  neither  letters  home  nor  from  home,  nor 
career-seeking,  nor  angling  for  financiers,  nor  the  sights 
of  the  great  city  quite  used  up  the  exiles'  time.  They 
received  much  social  attention.  To  a  choice  circle 
they  were,  Rosalie  playfully  wrote,  "a  new  game." 
Hostesses  who  could  not  secure  them  for  dinner  or 
lunch  begged  them  to  breakfast.  If  a  social  career 
could  have  satisfied  them,  there  it  waited  with  double 
doors  wide  open.  What  flattered  monsieur  much  was 
the  company,  not  of  men  whose  wives'  pearls  and  dia 
monds  might  have  bought  battleships,  but  of  men  of 

217 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

the  sciences  and  arts,  and  men  of  weight  in  world  poli 
tics,  who,  in  spite  of  his  best  manoeuvring,  and  with  a 
courtesy  satisfactory  even  to  a  Creole,  drew  more  out 
of  him  than  he  could  from  them.  If  anything  flattered 
him  more  it  was  the  way  every  one  doted  on  Rosalie's 
songs — French,  Italian,  English,  and  even  Scotch. 
Her  Scotch  was  "such  a  fetching  Creole  Scotch/'  he 
overheard. 

"And  now,"  the  ladies  besought  her,  "won't  you 
sing,  as  you  did  last  evening  before  the  gentlemen 
came  in, 

'What's  this  dull  town  to  me'?" 

No,  she  would  rather  not.  The  gentlemen  had  come 
in,  this  tune,  and  she  knew  that  that  song  cut  her  father 
to  the  heart.  As  for  herself  it  would  have  been  rapture 
to  sing  it;  the  nightingale  will  sing  for  grief,  for  love- 
grief.  It  was  blind  chance,  and  to  the  father  as  ugly 
as  blind,  that  once,  while  she  was  still  being  lauded  for 
an  Italian  love-rhapsody,  a  university  professor  asked 
him:  "Do  you  know,  down  there  in  Tulane,  that  re 
markable  young  history  man,  Castleton,  Philip  Cas- 
tleton?" 

"If  I  know  him,  yes;  though  not  as  rim-arkable. 
An' you?" 

"I  know  him  only  by  his  writings,  but  his  papers 
on  the  national  bearing  of  your  Southern  problem  are 
the  most  lucid,  high-minded 

The  Creole  lifted  a  hand.  "  An'  wrong-headed .  My 
dear  sir,  thad  young  man  know'  no  more  w'at  he's 

218 


SIEGE  RAISED 

talking  ab-out  than  those  anti-vaccinationist'.  Yes, 
my  daughter" — for  Rosalie  had  heard — "we  muz'  go." 

"Well,"  retorted  the  professor,  and  she  heard  again, 
"you  won't  have  him  long;  Harvard's  calling  him." 

Next  morning  the  pair  found  each  other  very,  very 
weary.  "Laz'  night,"  said  monsieur,  "I  heard  thad 
clock  strike  every  hour." 

Rosalie's  reply  itself  struck  an  hour.  "Well,"  she 
said,  "as  for  me,  I'm  ready — to  go  home." 

"Bud  the  home,"  he  demurred,  "is  gone." 

"We'll  make  another,  papa.  'Twill  be  small,  but — 
likewise  is  the  humming-bird's.  And  I'll  make  singing 
my  trade;  I'll  sing  by  the  job." 

He  stood  dumb,  meeting  her  uplifted  smile  with  a 
stare  of  anguish,  then  sank  into  a  seat  and  let  his  face 
down  into  his  hands.  The  daughter  knelt  and  laid 
her  head  on  his.  By  and  by,  before  either  had  stirred, 
she  asked: 

"You'll  arrange  that  to-day,  cher  papa?" 

"Yes.    Yes,  my  Rose." 

She  longed  to  be  off  at  once,  but  they  were  engaged 
to  dine,  and  at  dinner,  bang !  they  met  Murray  again, 
returning  from  California  to  Britain.  He  clung  to 
them  through  the  evening,  escorted  them  to  their 
hotel,  and  talked  on  with  them  there.  He  had  come 
east  by  the  Southern  Pacific  route,  and  in  New  Orleans 
had  once  more  seen  the  Castletons.  Philip  he  de 
scribed  as — "for  a  man  who  calls  himself  well" — in 
very  poor  condition.  He  gave  no  hint  that  Ovide  had 
told  him  Philip's  love-story.  He  did  confess  that 

219 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

through  the  bookman  he  knew  all  the  Durels'  misfor 
tunes.  The  antique-shop,  he  said,  was  doing  a  "  rrrat- 
tling  business/'  Now  he  rejoiced  to  be  told  that  the 
headship  of  the  small  bank  was  accepted.  Yet  as  he 
was  going  he  begged : 

"Don't  hurry  back!  Man,  you're  tired  out!  Get 
rested!" 

Monsieur  said  it  was  for  Rosalie  he  was  going,  and 
she  said  that  "New  York"  made  him  only  "the  more 
tired." 

"I  have  it!"  cried  the  Scot  in  the  joy  of  a  sudden 
deep,  intermeddling  design.  "  Come  with  me,  to-mor 
row,  to  the  rrestfulest  spot  this  side  the  Atlantic.  A 
mere  ferry  trip,  two  days,  and  you're  in  the  Bermudas, 
a  fountain  of  youth  for  a  tired  head  or  hearrt !" 

The  Durels,  silently  dismayed  at  the  extra  outlay, 
argued  that  New  Orleans  was  by  this  time  compara 
tively  quiet;  both  the  racing  season  and  the  carnival 
were  passed 

"Yes,"  said  the  Scot,  "just  over  as  I  came  through. 
But  be  the  time  o'  year  this  or  that,  for  you  there's 
your  old  ruts  to  jolt  across,  or,  worse,  to  drrop  into  !" 

Monsieur  shifted  ground  and  mentioned  German 
cruisers. 

"Hoh !  Have  you  seen  any  wolves  in  Fifth  Avenue 
lately?" 

The  pair  might  have  said  yes,  but  Rosalie  merely 
remarked  that  their  tickets  south  were  already  bought. 

"You  can  exchange  them.  I'll  do  it  for  you!" 
With  two  against  one  the  debate  was  arduous.  The 

220 


SIEGE  RAISED 

Scot  drew  monsieur  to  the  sidewalk.  "Now,  I  mean 
this!"  he  there  insisted,  though  even  for  himself  he 
had  never  meant  it  until  he  re-encountered  them. 
But  now  he  was  bent  on  doing  this  good  turn  to  a 
whole  cluster  of  jolly  good  folk;  a  turn  that,  above  all, 
might  work  the  lifelong  joy  of  that  fairest  thing  in  the 
world— if  his  crippled  heart  spoke  true — a  pair  of  true 
lovers.  It  hurt  to  have  to  go  to  his  hotel  with  the 
question  left  open;  but  hardly  had  he  reached  his  room 
when  his  telephone  rang. 

"Yes  .  .  .  You'll  go?  ...  Mademoi'— good  for 
her!" 

He  telegraphed  a  night  letter  to  Philip.  "Come, 
student  of  knotty  questions,  spend  a  week  of  sea 
change  in  the  handiest  spot  this  side  of  any  ocean,  in 
which  to  see  how  my  people  bear  the  white  man's  bur 
den."  He  must  sail  next  day,  he  said,  but  a  steamer 
followed  every  few  days,  and  Philip  would  find  him 
waiting  on  the  dock  at  Hamilton  when  the  lighter 
steamed  up  the  harbor. 

As  Philip,  in  New  Orleans  at  breakfast,  read  this 
message  to  the  judge,  the  Scot  on  his  starboard  deck 
joined  the  Durels  to  point  out  Sandy  Hook.  "Ye 
noted  with  prride  that  Frenchman's  gift,  Liberty  En 
lightening  the  Wurruld?  Egad!  That's  what  lib 
erty's  for.  It's  the  wurruld's  fore  wheel.  And  the 
hind  wheel  is  like  unto  it,  but  bigger,  for  the  hind 
wheel  is  Love." 


XXXV 
ENCHANTED  ISLE 

AT  sea  the  Creole  banker  found  Murray  burden 
enough  for  any  white  man. 

The  Scot  was  giddied  by  an  item  of  the  Durels' 
trouble  which  he  knew  better  than  they.  On  his  way 
through  New  Orleans,  in  a  talk  with  Ovide,  he  had 
learned  more  than  he  ever  could  have  drawn  from 
either  Castle  ton;  more,  in  fact,  than  Ovide  willingly 
would  have  betrayed.  For  in  the  midst  of  the  story 
of  how  Zephire's  shortages  had  come  to  light,  and  of 
kow  M.  Durel  had  made  them  good  chiefly  by  large 
borrowings,  the  Briton  divined  something. 

"Who  lent  him  the  bulk  o'  that?"  he  demanded, 
and  when  Ovide  touched  his  own  breast  the  Scot  shook 
his  head. 

"Yes,"  insisted  the  bookman,  "I  did  that  myself." 

The  cross-examiner  clapped  his  hands  on  his  knees 
and  looked  the  narrator  in  the  eye.  Then,  relaxing,  he 
said: 

"That's  all  right.  Well  done—all  round !  I  under 
stand!" 

Now  at  sea,  off  Hatteras,  the  intermeddler,  obvious 
partisan  of  Philip,  began,  purely  for  love's  cause,  a 
gentle,  covert  endeavor  to  give  the  Creole  political 
mind  a  new  openness.  Whether  Philip,  should  he  fol- 

222 


ENCHANTED  ISLE 

low  to  the  beautiful  island,  would  choose  to  make  it  a 
sociological  study  the  Briton  cared  little,  but  he  was 
agog  to  rub  into  the  father  of  Rosalie  the  superiority 
of  certain  phases  of  the  island's  social  order  to  similar 
phases  in  "the  States."  He  extolled  its  harmony  in 
every  civic  relation  and  spent  his  wiliest  efforts  preach 
ing  the  abominable  gospel  of  government  by  peaceable 
counterplay  of  rival  political  parties  enjoying  equal 
rights.  With  wearying  frequency  he  cited  the  history 
of  Britain's  rule  at  home  and  abroad  and  dwelt  on  her 
blunders — the  many  missteps  she  had  had  the  courage 
to  retrace  and  pay  for — in  her  struggle  to  govern  and 
serve,  with  equity  and  freedom,  the  throng  of  alien 
races,  white  and  dark,  of  her  far-stretched  empire. 

The  Creole  moaned  under  the  load,  yet  because  of 
Philip,  whom  neither  of  them  ever  once  named,  but 
who  for  that  very  reason  loomed  ever  before  his  inner 
gaze,  he  could  not,  himself,  put  the  odious,  worn-out 
theme  aside  even  when  the  Scot  was  mercifully  silent. 

"My  dear  sir,  tha'z  the  deadest  queztion  in  Ammer- 
ica!" 

"No,  Mr.  Durel,  it  isn't  dead,  it's  merely  'possum- 
ing.  I  say  it  wi'  no  vaunting,  but  wi'  drread.  Ye 
may  crrack  its  bones  and  get  never  a  whimper,  yet 
'tis  but  'possuming.  Lorrd!  Ye  can't  neglect  it  to 
death;  the  neglect  of  all  America  can't  kill  it.  It's  in 
the  womb  o'  the  future  and  bigger  than  Asia,  Africa, 
and  America  combined.  Ye '11  do  well  to  be  friendly 
wi'  its  friends  and  trreat  it  kindly  while  it's  young  and 
trractable." 

223 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"My  dear  sir " 

"Hold  on,  this  is  my  last  word.  Tisn't  dead,  I  say. 
It's  but  lost  its  place  in  the  line  and  been  sent  back  to 
the  wurrukTs  tail-end.  Wi'  war  and  a  swarrm  o' 
lesser  things  on  yon  side,  and  preparedness  and  a 
swarrm  o'  lesser  things  on  this,  it's  pitifully  out 
o'  fashion;  but  fashions  have  an  uncanny  trrick  o' 
comin'  back,  and  there's  a  day  ahead,  whether  far  or 
near  God  only  knows,  when  that  question — and  they 
that  are  out  o'  fashion  wi'  it — will  come  round  again, 
as  big  and  ugly  as  hoop-skirrts." 

Thus  the  zealot — for  love,  not  politics — bored  his 
victim  through  and  through,  yet  did  not  wholly  defeat 
his  own  design.  When  the  short  voyage  was  done 
and  the  fair  island  spoke  for  itself,  the  Creole  vision 
had  been  quickened  if  not  cleared.  But  a  far  larger 
service  to  true  love  had  been  rendered  merely  in  set 
ting  the  father  and  daughter  ashore  on  this  small  facet 
of  the  world. 

Wherever  nature  arrays  herself  in  surpassing  beauty 
she  challenges  the  human  heart  to  show  why — for 
what  gain  or  by  what  right — it  keeps  itself  to  itself. 
From  the  moment  Rosalie  set  foot  on  the  magical  island 
— islands,  for  the  one  is  many — she  found  nature  sing 
ing  and  pleading  as  it  sings  and  pleads  in  the  Song  of 
Solomon. 

"Here  is  Solomon's  Song,"  thought  she,  "in  coral, 
in  cedar."  Wherever  by  hill  or  vale,  by  beach  or  cliff, 
she  wandered  to  escape  the  human  voice,  and  often  in 
spite  of  human  voices  that  could  not  be  escaped,  the 

224 


ENCHANTED  ISLE 

voice  of  nature  cried  to  every  sense  its  plaint  of  love; 
and  always  that  voice — though  it  never  spoke  in  hu 
man  tones  and  oftenest  was  as  noiseless  as  the  little 
ground-doves  that  ran  two-and-two  before  her  feet  in 
every  road  and  garden-path — was  the  voice  of  Philip 
seeking  her  out  across  seven  hundred  miles  of  States 
and  seven  hundred  of  ocean. 

Yet  always,  too,  another  voice  spoke,  in  challenging 
rejoinder;  the  voice  of  her  own  tenderness,  interceding 
for  a  heart-weary  father,  mateless,  stripped  of  power, 
lacerated  in  pride,  wrecked  in  fortune,  and  bereft  of 
home. 

One  day,  as  the  sun  dipped  low,  the  two,  far  from 
human  contact,  sat  on  the  brow  of  a  precipitous  sea- 
beaten  cliff,  looking  out  to  the  ocean's  rim,  across  the 
marvellous  peacock  colors  which  the  waters  there  take 
above  and  between  innumerable  submerged  gardens 
of  coral.  Here,  for  the  first  time  since  landing,  he  re 
verted  to  their  situation. 

"Rose,"  he  said  abruptly  and  in  French,  "I  beg  you 
to  be  more  receptive  to  admirers.  In  New  York  I 
yielded  to  your  proposal  that  we  go  back  to  New  Or 
leans  and  begin  life  over  again,  at  the  foot  of  the  lad 
der;  but  the  thought  of  it  is  cutting  my  heart  through. 
I  chose  to  pass  a  long  widowhood  bearing  its  burdens 
alone;  I  cannot  endure  now  to  lighten  them  by  loading 
their  heavier  half  on  my  child.  Your  dying  mother 
bade  me  marry  again  if  only  to  avoid  that." 

"Dear  papa,  I  wish  you  would,  even  now." 

"It  could  not,  cannot  be.  The  only  one  to  whom 
225 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

my  heart  might  have  turned  was  one  whom  I  had 
loved  in  earliest  manhood,  but  who,  for  others'  sake, 
had  married  before  I  married  your  mother;  and  that 
one,  when  your  mother  went  to  heaven,  had  been  there 
already  a  year." 

Without  a  stir  of  surprise  the  daughter  meditatively 
said :  "  Since  that  first  mutual  loss  was  a  mutual  sacri 
fice  to  duty  I  should  think  you  would  have  found  hi 
your  heart  a  very  tender  place  for  her  son." 

"  No !  Precisely  because  he,  like  you,  is  a  living, 
shining  monument  of  that  sacrifice,  his  treasons  to  our 
people  are  treasons  to  me — an  unpardonable  personal 
offense  1" 

"Papa,  they  are  meant  in  good  faith,  in  loyalty." 

"That  does  not  better  them  or  excuse  him.  They 
are  treasons  to  the  people  to  whom  he  owes  a  supreme 
allegiance;  treasons  still  persisted  in " 

"Ah,  how  are  we  so  sure?" 

"By  the  New  York  paper  I  read  but  yesterday,  say 
ing  as  I  read  it:  'Thank  God  he  is  no  son  of  mine. 
Please  God  he  never  shall  be."3 

"It  must  be  as  you  say,"  rejoined  the  girl,  with  eyes 
averted  and  cast  down.  "For  that  reason  I  have  felt 
the  more  free  to  ask  myself,  these  last  few  days,  in  this 
fair  land  so  like  and  unlike  our  own  Louisiana " 

"About  those  things  which  he  says  and  writes?" 

"Yes,  and  which  we  see  here  in  daily  practice  with 
out  any  evil  that  we  at  home  avoid.  Are  they  as  base 
as  we  think,  as  dangerous  as  we  fear?" 

The  father's  reply  came  headlong.  "They  are,  and 
226 


ENCHANTED  ISLE 

worse  !  I  deny  everything  this  land  pretends  to  show 
to  the  contrary.  I  am  firmer  than  ever  in  my  original 
opinions,  the  opinions  of  my  fathers !" 

Rosalie  made  bold  to  touch  his  hand.  "No,  dear 
papa,  like  me,  you  are  shaken.  That  is  why  you  are  so 
fierce." 

"I  am  fierce  because  a  man  like  that  ought  never  to 
seek — or  touch  ! — the  hand  of  a  Southern  woman  !" 

"That  would  rule  out  every  man  yonder  in  New 
York  or  here  in  Bermuda  to  whom  you  bid  me  listen." 

"Not  at  all !  They  are  not  Louisianians  or  in  Lou 
isiana.  If  you  choose  to  marry  away  from  home,  out 
of  the  South,  I  lay  no  ban  on  any  suitor's  politics.  Let 
his  politics  be  those  of  his  country — of  good  society  in 
his  country.  For  God's  sake,  don't  refuse  to  marry, 
altogether!  Suppose  I  should  die  next  year,  and 
grand 'mere  the  year  after.  Heaven !  What  would 
you  do?" 

"My  dear  papa,  I  have  long  ago  thought  that  out. 
There  is  always  the  cloister,  the  veil." 

He  caught  her  fingers.    "And  not  Philip  Castleton  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "After  you  are  gone — no. 
Once  for  all  I  have  dismissed  Philip  Castleton — not 
in  word,  it  is  true,  but  in  fact.  I  have  as  good  as  said 
to  him:  'Go,  find  another.  Do  me  that  honor;  the 
honor  not  to  let  love  for  one  woman  drive  the  perfume 
of  happiness  out  of  a  noble  life,  out  of  a  world's  ser 


vice." 


"And  he  has  renounced  you?" 
"Yes.     Not  in  words  to  me,  but  in  acts  to  you. 
227 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Let  ine  ask — has  he  made  the  slightest  use  of  our  dis 
tresses  to  get  me  from  you?  Has  he  not  rather 
planned  and  worked  to  keep  me  with  you  ?  You  have 
not  told  me  so  but  I  have  eyes." 

"  And  you  approve  that  ?    For  him  to  drop  you  so  ?  " 

"  He  has  not  lightly  dropped  me.  He  has  torn  him 
self  away.  He  has  made  neither  too  much  of  love  nor 
too  little.  Knowing  it  or  not,  he  has  followed  your 
example." 

"My  child,  not  he.  He  will  never  follow  anything 
but  conviction.  What  credit  lies  in  that  I  grant  him." 

"Please  do  not  you  speak  in  his  praise,  papa.  My 
heart  is  neither  flint  nor  clay.  It  can  only  struggle  to 
give  up  a  lover  who  can  love  in  that  fashion.  When 
he  has  found  another — and  I  believe  he  will — I  may 
succeed  better.  But,  after  all,  we  are  only  supposing 
a  dreadful  thing  that  is  not  going  to  be.  You  will  live 
on  and  on,  and  beautiful  grand'mere  is  good  for  twenty- 
five  years  yet  to  come." 

Again  that  night  it  was  long  ere  the  father  could 
sleep.  At  dawn  he  dreamed.  There  came  before  him 
a  vision  so  real,  so  unfantastic,  that  when  he  sprang 
awake  a  sense  of  its  actuality  so  persisted  that  he  rose 
half  up  to  dispel  it.  He  had  seen  Philip's  mother. 


XXXVI 
ENCHANTED  VISION 

THAT  he  had  seen  and  not  merely  dreamed  he  saw, 
the  waking  man  was  confident  because  of  his  proud 
self-assurance  that  he  was  without  superstitions. 

He  did  not  discredit  the  supernatural;  he  accepted 
even  latter-day  miracles.  He  knew,  by  his  earliest 
catechism,  that  all  above  and  about  him  there  were 
angels  and  that  one  in  particular  kept  guard  over  him. 
But  he  believed,  too,  in  science,  in  reason,  in  the  stead 
fastness  of  nature's  laws,  and  in  no  self-operating 
magic.  Not  one  of  those  thousand  faces  of  lions,  apes, 
horses,  men,  and  swine,  that  in  these  months  of  brain- 
wrack  had  beset  him  meant  any  more  to  him  than  to 
his  physician.  They  had  never  uttered  a  sound.  But 
in  this  marvellous,  undreamlike  vision  he  had  had  the 
clear  testimony  of  two  senses  at  once;  he  had  seen,  he 
had  heard;  saw  acts  performed,  heard  rational  words. 
From  this  experience,  moreover,  that  whole  grotesque 
mob  of  silent,  stone-gray  visages  was  totally  absent. 

Philip's  mother  had  appeared  in  the  bloom  of  her 
girlhood,  though  beside  her  stood  her  son  in  adult 
breadth  and  stature.  For,  as  something  had  mutely 
told  him  at  the  moment,  in  heaven — as  our  case  may 
be — we  grow  on,  or  grow  back,  to  youth's  perfect  day 
and  there  abide.  The  dreamer,  as  it  seemed,  with 

229 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Rosalie  at  his  side,  had  been  strolling  along  a  bit  ol 
white  coral  sand-beach  between  the  cliff  where  they 
had  sat  and  conversed  in  the  afternoon,  and  a  part  oi 
the  sea  where  the  waters  boiled  and  lashed  over  low 
jagged  rocks.  They  had  paused  to  look  into  the 
golden  haze  of  the  ocean  sunset,  when  suddenly,  in 
clear  outline  and  an  amazing  show  of  reality,  Philip's 
mother,  and  then  Philip,  advancing  a  single  step  from 
her  side,  were  there. 

They  seemed  not  to  have  arrived  but  to  materialize 
on  the  spot  from  the  sunset  haze.  At  the  same  time 
a  voice,  close  by,  yet  not  on  one  side  or  another  but 
appearing  to  originate  in  and  from  the  whole  sur 
rounding  air,  spoke  the  one  word,  "Compensation." 
Awed,  thrilled,  the  father  had  barely  found  time  to 
say  to  the  daughter,  "This  is  no  dream,"  when  the 
word,  this  time  far  overhead,  was  repeated,  followed 
by  two  others— "At  last!" 

If  this  recital  anywhere  betrays  the  whimsicalities 
of  a  dream  the  fault  is  in  the  telling.  The  mother  and 
son  were  hardly  five  paces  away.  Philip  stood  on  the 
boiling  rocks — she  beyond  him  on  the  yeasting  sea — 
as  though  these  were  footings  as  convenient  and  usual 
as  the  turfed  crown  of  the  bluff  above.  So  standing, 
she  presently  began  to  sway  in  an  exalted  rhythm  as 
of  a  sacerdotal  dance.  And  now  she  reached  and  took 
one  hand  of  her  son  while  he  extended  his  other  to 
Rosalie,  who,  leaning  at  the  sands'  outer  edge  and 
clinging  to  her  father's  hold  at  arm's  length,  stretched 
her  free  hand  out  over  the  water  for  Philip's.  Nothing 

230 


ENCHANTED  VISION 

In  routine  life  could  have  seemed  more  actual.  As 
hands  touched,  the  mother  called;  not  in  that  earlier, 
incorporeal  voice,  but  in  one  most  sweetly  human  and 
familiar  and  incalculably  more  real  for  being  out  of 
the  rhythm:  "Make  her  mine!  Mine!  Make  both 
thine,  and  each  one  ours !" 

Its  hearer  awoke  in  a  tremor  of  realization.  When 
he  sprang  to  his  elbow  the  golden  light  that  filled  his 
broad  window  was  that  of  a  rising  sun,  and  he  left  the 
bed  and  dressed.  In  a  day  of  better  poise  he  might 
have  explained  away  the  experience  as  coming  not  to 
him  but  from  him.  Now  he  could  not.  That  first 
voice,  by  which  it  had  been  heralded,  could  be  nothing 
but  the  call  of  his  guardian  angel.  The  speaking  pres 
ence  of  his  first  beloved  was  too  holy  to  be  reasoned 
off  into  mere  reverberations  of  haunting  cares  and 
incidents  of  the  previous  day. 

He  walked  out  into  the  beautiful  white  highway 
that  rims  the  harbor,  more  than  usually  willing  to 
meet  the  burdensome  Scot.  It  had  suited  both  the 
Durels  quite  as  well  as  Murray  for  the  latter  to  put 
up  at  a  leading  hotel  of  the  island's  small  capital  while 
they  went  to  a  quiet  inn  on  the  opposite,  the  "Paget," 
side  of  the  bay.  For  more  than  two  days,  now,  they 
had  not  seen  him;  since  the  latest  arrival,  that  is,  of 
the  New  York  steamer,  on  which  he  had  more  than 
half  expected  a  friend  whom  he  would  have  to  show 
about  and  present  to  the  governor-general,  as  he  had 
already  done  them. 

This  morning,  at  the  first  turn  of  the  winding  road, 
231 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

the  risen  dreamer  saw  his  fellow  tourist  coming  round 
the  next  one  ahead.  In  Bermuda  every  one  goes  on 
the  bicycle,  and  the  Scot  was  cycling,  but  he  promptly 
dropped  to  his  feet  and  soon  the  two  were  walking 
back  toward  the  Creole's  inn  together,  the  cyclist  push 
ing  his  wheel.  Following  his  inquiry  as  to  monsieur's 
night's  rest  the  wheelman  found  himself  required  to 
answer  a  personal  question:  Had  he  ever  seen  an  un 
doubted  vision  as  distinguished  from  the  vagaries  of 
an  ordinary  dream? 

His  reply  was  adroit.  While  he  was  far  too  gross, 
he  said,  for  that  sort  of  thing,  he  believed  some  were 
not  and  that  monsieur  was  emphatically  of  their  kind. 

"Well,  if  tha'z  the  way  you  billieve,  I  muz'  tell  you 
something.  You'll  egscuse  me,  putting  that  on  you? 
There  is  nobody  else  an'  any'ow  I  thing  maybe  you 
have  been  tol'  a  good  deal  abboud  me,  eh?" 

"Right  or  wrong,  I've  guessed  a  lot." 

"Well,  I  muz'  tell  you."  The  Creole  told  his  story; 
not  the  dream  alone  but  the  whole  history  that  fore 
ran  it  and  which  needed  to  be  known  in  order  to  ap 
preciate  the  vision  in  its  full  poetic  and  convincing 
power. 

When  at  its  close  he  waved  and  dropped  both  hands 
his  companion  made  instant  reply,  hurried  by  that 
same  zeal  in  the  cause  of  love  which  had  inspired  him 
to  lure  the  Creole  to  the  island.  "Mr.  Durel,  it's  no 
for  a  Hieland  Scot  to  doubt  the  second  sight!  The 
mother  of  Philip  Castleton,  etherealized,  has  shown 
her  actual  self  to  you  as  mayhap  she  cannot  to  any 


ENCHANTED  VISION 

other  morrtal.  I  make  no  doubt  that  they  in  her 
worruld  are  at  times  given  a  power  by  which  she's 
first  prompted  in  you  a  drream  and  then  used  the 
drream  to  give  a  splendor  of  emphasis  to  her  prresence 
and  to  the  prrayer  she  makes  you." 

"Tha'zyo'  thought?" 

"  It's  my  conviction,  sir !  The  most  you  saw  was 
pure  drream;  the  vision  was  a  wee  bit  in  its  centre, 
like  the  seed  in  the  thistledown.  D'you  mark,  that 
of  the  three — she,  her  son,  and  your  daughter — only 
she  spoke?" 

"An'  in  that  you  fine  a  meaning?" 

"I  find  a  fact;  this:  that  the  other  two  were  but 
phantoms  of  her  creation.  She  alone  was  a  real  pres 
ence — in  the  spiritual  body.  Man,  how  trremendous 
must  be  that  love,  or  pain,  or  both,  that  brrings  her 
holy  soul  back  from  paradise  after  all  these  years ! " 

"Whad  would  you  do?  You  would  grand  that 
prayer?" 

The  Scot  hoped  he  saw  victory  but  would  not  be 
hasty.  "I'd  do  nothing — yet,"  he  said.  "Man  !  Her 
prayer  changes  not  a  single  fact  of  the  case.  The  case 
is  just  where  it  was  before  the  vision." 

"My  dear  sir,  no !"  began  monsieur.  "Thad  prayer 
change'  every—  But  his  friend  chose  to  be  deaf. 

"The  case  is  just  where  it  was  and  you  don't  even 
yet  know  all  the  facts.  Not  that  I  know  any  that 
would  alter  your  mind — 

"What  is  thad  fact  I  am  ignorant?" 

"  A  fact  no  one  would  ever  have  told  me  if  I  hadn't 
233 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

firrst  guessed  it;  a  thing  a'  those  Castle  tons  have  tried 
their  best  to  hide " 

"By  what  right  do  they  dare  to  hide  any " 

"Man,  by  a  divine  right !  From  you,  from  all,  but, 
clearrest  of  all,  from  your  daughter.  For  if  she  knew 
it  she  wouldn't  have  Phil  Castleton  though  you  threw 
him  at  her." 

"I  dimmand  that  you  tell  me  that !" 

"I'll  do  it  when  I  have  your  worrd  of  honor  that 
you'll  not  tell  her  or  any  one  who  might  tell  her." 

"My  frien',  she  woul'n'  have  him  any'ow.  You 
don'  know  they  'ave  already  rinnounz'  each  other?" 

"Pooh !    You  must  pledge  me  not  to  tell  her." 

"All  right.    I  give  you  my  word  of  honor." 

"You  won't  even  let  her  know  she  doesn't  know 
all?" 

"I  promiz'  that  also." 

"Very  good.  Mind,  I'm  taking  rrisks.  It  may 
play  the  devil  for  me  to  tell,  but — well — it  may  help 
interrpret  the  vision.  For  I  know  the  pain  it's  cost 
both  you  and  her  that's  in  heaven,  for  you  to  have 
saved  your  business  honor  by — well,  flatly — by  bor 
rowing  from  your  wife's  father's  nigger —  Oh,  now, 
keep  cool  and  I'll  tell  you  good  news.  You  did  not. 
You  didn't  do  what  you  thought  you  were  doing. 
Every  dollar  Landry  lent  you  came  from  the  Castle- 
tons.  It's  good  you  wanted  no  more;  'twas  all  they 
had." 

M.  Durel  was  overwhelmed.  He  sank  to  a  seat  on 
a  low  wall  and  gazed  across  the  harbor  and  its  islands. 

234 


ENCHANTED  VISION 

At  length  he  spoke  again:  "An'  you  tell  me  that  for 
my  comfort?" 

"  I  tell  it  for  what  it's  worth.    Here  comes  mademoi 
selle     I'll  see  you  later." 


235 


XXXVII 
TRUE  FLESH  AND  BLOOD 

SHUNNING  all  frequented  ways,  for  three  sunsets  in 
succession  the  father  and  daughter  returned  to  that 
cliff  and  beach  where  the  ocean  boiled  over  the  rocks. 

The  scene  was  an  alluring  one;  for  its  own  sake,  to 
go  there  was  easier  than  to  stay  away.  Yet  it  was  not 
for  its  own  sake  they  went.  There,  each  time,  with 
daughterly  indulgence  and  a  growing  fear  that  his 
strength  was  failing  she  heard  him  recount  the  first 
half  of  his  dream,  describing  its  apparitions  but  not 
their  movements,  and  mentioning  neither  words  nor 
voices.  That  he  did  not  tell  the  whole  matter  was 
plain,  but  she  would  not  tempt  him  on;  sought  rather 
to  divert  his  thoughts. 

But  they  would  not  be  diverted.  He  would  not 
have  it  so.  Whether  the  experience  was  dream  alone 
or  dream  and  reality  blended,  he  said,  could  be  de 
cided  only  by  invoking  its  return.  If  it  could  be 
tempted  back  he  would  know  it  as  a  true  visitation 
from  the  spirit  world.  On  their  way  to  the  spot  for 
the  third  time,  he  confessed,  when  plied,  that  the 
strain  was  telling  sadly  on  "these  nerves,"  and  he 
promised  that  if  this  visit  proved  fruitless  it  should 

236 


TRUE  FLESH  AND  BLOOD 

be  the  last.  "But  that  is  on  one  condition,"  he  said, 
"that  for  a  few  minutes — ten — fifteen — you  will  leave 
me  there  alone.  If  she  wants  to  come  and  cannot  it 
is  because  of  your  presence." 

So  when  he  sat  down  on  the  tumbled  rocks,  well 
back,  where  the  cliff's  foot  was  dry,  to  await  the  sink 
ing  of  the  vast  crimson  ball  on  the  sea's  rim,  she  idled 
away  from  him  amid  the  sea-grape,  sea-lavender,  and 
other  things,  higher  and  lower,  that  covered  the  wind- 
heaped  sands.  A  few  steps  aside,  at  a  corner  of  the 
cliff  which  would  have  put  her  out  of  view,  she  almost 
reversed  her  steps  on  a  footpath  that  wound  up  the 
steep's  front  in  a  breast-high  ambush  of  wild  growth 
curious  in  form  and  fruit. 

Half-way  up,  the  angle  of  ascent  persisting,  a  yard 
or  so  of  the  path  allowed  scant  foot-room  through  a 
fissure  in  the  soft  coral  rock  and  revealed  another 
front  of  the  bluff.  Here  for  a  brief  space  she  paused 
to  look  seaward  upon  the  uppermost  crimson  rim  of 
the  departing  sun  and  then,  moving  on,  turned  the 
cliff's  angle.  Naturally,  as  she  did  so,  her  glance  rose 
to  the  steep's  cedar-crowned  top  and  instantly  she 
recoiled,  gazing  and  trembling.  Up  there,  at  the 
height's  edge,  looking  far  out  on  sky  and  ocean,  as  she 
had  just  done,  and  lighted  from  head  to  foot  by  the 
twilight  glow,  stood  Philip  Castleton. 

No  faintest  sign  did  he  betray  of  seeking,  expecting, 
or  desiring  any  human  presence,  at  least  ashore,  and 
after  a  second  or  two,  with  gaze  unaltered,  he  stepped 
backward  and  was  lost  among  the  cedars.  She  faced 

237 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

about,  hurried  down  the  path,  and  soon  was  at  her 
father's  side. 

"Have  you  seen  anything?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing.  My  daughter,  your  hands  are  ice! 
What  has  happened  to  you?" 

"Nothing — out  of  the  natural — I  hope.  Let  us  go, 
we  have  omitted  to  bring  a  lantern." 

"My  child  !    You  have  yourself  seen  her !" 

"Worse,  papa.    I  have  seen  her  son." 

"My  God!    He  spoke?    He  saw  you?" 

"No,  he  was  looking  away  out  to  sea." 

"For  her!" 

"I  know  not,  but  certainly  not  for  us." 

"Rosalie,  my  poor  child,  you  have  but  dreamed." 

"Hoh!" 

"My  child,  I  believe  that  man  is  in  New  Orleans, 
alive  and  well." 

"No,  dear  papa,  you  believe  that  if  he  is  in  New 
Orleans  he  is  there  only  in  the  lifeless  clay,  and  that 
if  he  is  alive  he  is  here.  Let  us  go." 

They  climbed  to  the  high  ground  and  by  and  by 
were  in  one  of  those  narrow,  rugged  footways,  "tribe- 
roads,"  that  are  frequently  deep-sunken  in  the  island's 
foundation  rocks,  their  perpendicular  sides  overhung 
above  by  interlacing  boughs.  Here  they  were  clam 
bering  steeply  upward  in  the  dusk,  with  barely  room 
to  go  abreast,  when,  on  reaching  a  more  level  part  be 
tween  the  walls  of  two  ancient  grove-gardens,  another 
rise,  just  beyond,  showed — facing  from  them  against  a 
vertical  streak  of  sky  and  no  sooner  seen  than  veiled 

238 


TRUE  FLESH  AND  BLOOD 

again  in  a  gloom  of  foliage — the  slow-stepping  figure 
of  a  man,  the  same  that  Rosalie  had  seen  under  the 
cedars  of  the  ocean  cliff. 

With  an  arresting  gesture  to  her  the  father,  as  well 
as  he  could  stumble  up  the  rocky  path,  hastened  for 
ward.  Haltingly,  tremblingly,  she  followed;  but  when 
by  and  by  she  found  herself  on  a  level  highroad  and 
between  the  open  gates  of  three  umbrageous  estates, 
nothing  moved  to  tell  her  where  to  look  for  either  van 
ished  form.  Soon,  however,  her  father  rejoined  her. 
His  touch  was  as  cold  as  hers. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let  us  go  indoors." 

For  some  distance  they  went  silently,  but  then  his 
speech  was  abrupt.  "My  soul !"  he  cried.  "It  is  his 
ghost  looking  for  her;  her  with  her  grief,  he  with  his !" 

"No,  he  is  still  in  this  life." 

"Then  he  is  looking  for  us !  Else  by  what  chance 
in  ten  thousand  is  he  just  now  in  this  part  of  this 
island?" 

"By  a  chance,  papa,  less  than  one  in  ten  thousand, 
yet  by  chance.  You'll  have  that  proved  to-night  in 
the  most  commonplace  way — by  telephone." 

"  Ah,  telephone !  Can  even  wireless  inform  me  how 
he  vanished  between  those  three  gates,  like  a  blown- 
out  candle?" 

"Yes,  he  went  one  way  and  you  another,  that  is  all." 

At  their  inn  the  pair  found  the  dining-room  full  and 
the  region  of  the  telephone  empty.  Monsieur  called 
up  the  Scot's  hotel  and  was  answered.  "I  wizh,"  he 
said,  "to  speak  with  Mr.  Philip  Cazzleton.  Phil — 

239 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

yes."  He  waited.  Rosalie,  at  his  side,  shook  visibly. 
The  answer  came;  she  heard  it. 

"He's  not  in  just  now,  sir.  He's  dining  over  in 
Paget." 

She  averted  her  face  and  sank,  all  but  fell,  into  a 
chair.  Monsieur  hung  up  the  receiver.  "Murray  has 
done  this,"  he  said,  "he's  wire'  thad  young  man  to 


come !" 


"Yes,  without  telling  him  we  are  here." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"If  he  knew  we  were  here  he  would  never  have 
come !" 

Each  for  the  other's  sake  they  went  in  to  the  evening 
meal.  But  soon  they  left  the  inn,  unequal  to  social 
encounters  and  too  restless  to  find  comfort  in  set  pas 
times.  Out  on  the  broad  coral-paved  highway  as 
smooth  as  a  courtyard  the  night  was  wonderful.  Close 
on  the  road's  inland  side  loomed  the  steep  hills,  clad 
with  groves  of  fiddlewood  and  cedar,  avenues  of  palm 
and  aloe,  bamboo  and  casuarina,  and  gardens  rife  with 
lilies  and  roses,  behind  hedges  of  bignonia  and  hibiscus 
and  low  walls  of  coral  sandstone.  Below  them  on  the 
outer  side  slept  the  harbor,  its  ripples  and  wavelets 
tipped  with  phosphorescence.  On  the  opposite  shore 
the  little  city's  lights,  reflected  in  the  water's  margins, 
swarmed  up  the  loftiest  hillside  till  a  few  at  the  top 
mingled  with  the  northern  stars. 

These  were  the  things  that  could  speak  to  the  father's 
and  daughter's  minds.  Here  the  grossest  intrusion 
was  no  more  than  the  silent  passage  of  an  occasional 

240 


TRUE  FLESH  AND  BLOOD 

bicycle  as  it  put  them  for  a  moment  in  the  glare  of  its 
lamp.  The  surpassing  beauty  and  peace  of  the  scene 
calmed  them,  and  long  after  a  tower  clock  beyond  the 
harbor  had  tolled  ten,  and  their  steps,  though  slow,  had 
wearied  them,  they  still  breathed  the  solace  of  the 
open  sky.  They  were  resting  half  seated  on  a  bit  of 
low  retaining  wall  next  the  water,  where  the  road,  at 
an  abrupt  turn,  was  on  that  side  built  out  against  the 
wall  and  on  the  other  was  cut  into  the  face  of  a  hill. 
Their  infrequent  remarks  were  quite  detached  from 
the  thoughts  that  most  haunted  them,  but  after  a  time 
Rosalie  ventured  so  near  them  as  to  say : 

"Papa,  when  you  believed  that  was  a  ghost  we  saw, 
did  you  think  also  of — of  Zephire?" 

"Ah!"  said  the  father  evasively,  "Zephire  is  in 
Mexico;  a  general,  I  am  told — of  fifty  men.  May  he 
never  return !" 

A  long  silence  followed.  Then,  "It  may  be,"  mur 
mured  the  same  speaker,  "  that  we  shall  see  our  ghost 
again  to-night;  he  is  afoot,  you  know,  and  this  is  Pa- 
get." 

"Papa,  do  you  want  to  see  him  to-night?" 

"Not  in  this  fashion,  waylaying  him  in  the  King's 
highroad.  Let  us  go  back  to  the  inn."  The  girl 
slipped  from  the  wall,  but  then  stood  very  still.  From 
a  few  yards  up  the  road  on  its  inner  edge  came  a  sound 
of  some  one  approaching;  some  one  walking,  his  tread 
barely  audible,  who,  like  this  pair,  was  without  a  lan 
tern.  The  shadow  of  the  hill  quite  hid  his  form,  and 
as  a  bicycle's  light,  rounding  the  cliff,  put  father  and 

241 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

daughter  exactly  in  its  centre  the  footfall  stopped 
short.  Then,  as  the  turning  lamp's  circle  of  light  left 
them  it  shone  full  upon  Philip  Castleton.  His  dazzled 
eyes  still  showed  amazement,  but  before  the  light  could 
pass  the  amazement  had  changed  to  that  intrepidity 
of  gaze — best  known  to  Zephire — which  so  graced  those 
eyes  in  extreme  moments. 

"Mr. — why — why,  Mr.  Durel!"  The  lamp  was 
gone,  the  two  men  were  meeting  in  the  middle  of 
the  snow-white  road,  under  a  flood  of  moonlight. 
"Why — "  He  tried  to  continue,  but  broke  down  with 
a  laugh. 


242 


XXXVIII 
LOVER  AND  DREAMER 

MONSIEUR'S  unsmiling  rejoinder  had  been  polished 
and  sharpened  for  the  encounter.  "You  di'n'  know  I 
was  there,  in  Bermuda  ? " 

"  Not  till  that  light  fell  on  you.    I  didn't  dream  it ! " 

"Dream"  was  the  happiest  word  the  youth  could 
have  spoken.    The  Creole's  brow  showed  a  kindliness 
new  to  Philip.     "Well,"  he  responded,  "any'ow— 
His  hand  swung  forward.     Philip  pressed  it.     "Rosa 
lie,"  its  owner  said,  "'tis  our  frien'  Mr.  Cazzleton." 

Her  hand  throbbed  a  moment  in  Philip's.  "Like 
us,"  she  said,  "you  are  here  for  rest,  I  suppose?" 

That  purpose  he  disclaimed  and  when  monsieur 
mentioned  the  extra  burden  of  grand-jury  work — 
"Not  burden  enough  to  be  called  work,"  he  said,  "and 
anyhow,  last  week,  first  of  March,  our  term  ended. 
There's  a  new  grand  jury.  No,  I'm  here  for  study; 
for  a  closer  view  of  certain  experiments  in  public  mat 
ters  about  which  we  at  home  need  to  know  all  we  can 
learn.  That's  why  I've  just  been  dining  with  some  of 
the  island's  leading  men." 

Monsieur  let  out  a  faint  "humph."  Could  they 
never  take,  these  two,  a  step  together  without  stepping 
on  that  thorn?  The  three  moved  toward  the  inn, 
monsieur  silent,  Rosalie  plying  the  youth  with  in- 

243 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

quiries,  first  about  his  far-wandering  aunt  and  the 
judge,  and  then  as  to  social  New  Orleans  in  general. 
He  soon  saw  that  the  brave  plan  to  capitalize  her 
talents  in  New  York  had  been  dashed  to  bits  on  its 
pavements,  and  was  glad  that  she  gave  no  chance  to 
ask  questions,  since  he  could  have  offered  no  regrets. 
At  the  inn  door  she  spoke  a  prompt  good  night. 
Not  so  her  father.  "You  are  walking  entirely  arroun' 
into  Hamilton?"  he  inquired.  "If  you  please  I'll  go 
halv-way  with  you.  Rosalie,  you'll  not  wait  up  for 


me." 


"Ah!"  she  cried,  "and  you'll  talk  all  night — about 
that— war !"  "War"  meant  "vision." 

She  drew  him  aside  and  in  two  or  three  whispered 
words,  without  argument,  repeated  her  warning  lit 
erally.  How  many  things  there  are  which  one  cannot 
explain  to  a  father !  In  a  maiden's  diplomacy  with 
fate — her  heart's  fate — there  may  come  a  time  when 
she  can  no  longer  dictate  ideal  terms  but  must  take 
what  offers.  To  Rosalie,  however,  that  time  had  not 
come  and  no  hint  of  that  vision  must  let  it  seem  to 
have  come.  The  lover's  suit  was  withdrawn !  He  had 
raised  his  siege !  Not  she  nor  her  father,  but  fate 
alone,  some  new  turn  of  fate,  must  run  up  the  white 
flag  to  bring  back  the  withdrawn  besieger.  All  this 
harrowing  argument  she  kept  unwhispered,  trusting  it 
to  a  father's  love  and  wisdom,  and  with  another  blithe 
good  night  went  in. 

Walking  beside  the  youth  who  had  been  one  of  the 
apparitions  of  his  dream  monsieur  found  his  mind  so 

244 


LOVER  AND  DREAMER 

flooded  with  that  experience  that  he  remained  silent. 
Yet  he  walked  on,  impelled  by  a  growing  power  in  that 
prayer  brought  to  him  from  the  spirit  world.  And  by 
another  impulse  as  well:  a  sense  of  imperious  obligation 
imposed  by  the  astounding  self-sacrifice  the  two  Cas- 
tletons  had  made  to  save  his  honor  for  the  sake  of  his 
mother  and  daughter.  For  days  he  had  vainly  striven 
to  impute  to  them  one  or  another  absurd  hope  of  rec 
ompense.  Intellectually  he  could  not  help  but  recog 
nize  the  self-denial,  yet  emotionally  he  could  not  force 
himself  to  realize  it.  It  benumbed  his  imagination. 
He  could  more  easily  accept  the  reality  of  that  amazing 
dream  than  of  this  quiet  fact.  As  long  as  its  author 
had  seemed  to  be  Ovide  it  had  been  credible;  Ovide 
was — in  effect — of  a  sort — a  Durel.  But  these  two, 
and  in  particular  the  younger,  this  renounced  and  re 
nouncing  lover — how  could  it  be  ?  Such  form  of  self- 
effacement,  masculine  self-effacement,  he  had  never 
seen,  heard  of,  read  of,  in  all  mankind's  love-story. 
What  to  do  with  its  insufferable  weight  he  could  not 
contrive.  Gratitude  lifted  not  an  ounce  of  it.  Not  one 
*ed  drop  of  gratitude  could  he  find  in  his  heart.  Honor 
tself  forbade  gratitude;  for  without  a  change  of  front, 
which  this  present  strait  made  impossible,  gratitude 
was  pure  mockery.  So  he  walked  mute  until  Philip 
iiought  it  only  true  deference  to  speak. 
"I  wasn't  compelled  to  come  to  Bermuda,"  he  said, 
could  have  turned  back  at  Princeton." 
"I  hear'  in  New  York  you  are  called  to  Harvard." 
"No.  However  that  report  got  out,  it's  wrong. 
245 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

They  did  fancy  they  wanted  me  at  Princeton,  but  I'm 
not  going." 

"Ah !  You  should  go.  Ad  Prinzton,  so  cloze  bitwin 
Washington  and  New  York,  tha'z  to  be  in  the  big 
worl',  an'  tha'z  w'at  you  love,  that  big  worl',  is  it  not  ? " 

"Mr.  Durel,  I  love  New  Orleans." 

Monsieur  replied  inquiringly,  as  if  that  were  news 
to  him.  "Yes?  For  w'at  you  love  her?" 

"For  what  she  is;  for  what  she  is  to  be,  and  for 
whatever  I  can  do  to  that  end." 

"Yes?    With  all  her  fault',  as  they  say,  you ?" 

"Yes,  sir!  Yes!  I  love  my  mother-city  faithfully 
enough  to  see  her  faults — I'd  rather  call  them  ailments 
— and  to  want  to  help  cure  them — as  I  couldn't  help 
from  a  distance.  I've  never  said  she  had  more  of  them 
than  the  big  world.  Mr.  Durel,  if  I  ever  get  to  where 
the  big  world's  faults  are  my  first  business — as  they 
are  some  men's — I'm  certainly  not  there  now.  That's 
the  reason — at  least  that's  one  reason — I  can't  go  to 
Princeton — or  anywhere  else — yet!" 

"Same  like — su'posing  Clevelan',  Buffallo,  Minnea 
polis,  was  yo'  mother-city — you  should  say " 

"No,  sir.  No!  ...  No!  ...  No!  New  Orleans 
isn't  just  my  mother-city,  or  yours  and  mine,  she's  a 
mother-city — metro,  mother,  polis,  city;  the  capital  of 
a  distinct — more  or  less  distinct — civilization." 

"Of— of  Dixie,  I  su'pose?" 

"Yes,  and  that's  why  to  say  I  love  New  Orleans  is  a 
lot  bigger  than  for  any  such  as  I  to  say,  I  love  Cleve 
land,  or  Buffalo,  or  Minneapolis,  though  they  may  all 

246 


LOVER  AND  DREAMER 

be  greater  in  their  way.  To  love  Dixie's  capital  joins 
me  to  the  whole  big  world  even  in  the  matter  of  faults; 
for  there  isn't  a  shortcoming  in  Dixie  that  isn't  so  con 
doned  and  shared  by  the  rest  of  the  nation  as  to  be 
the  whole  nation's  shortcoming  in  the  eyes  of  the  big 
world." 

"Capital  of  a  civilization/'  monsieur  mused  aloud. 

"Yes —  Oh,  that's  her  greatness,  sir !  not  the 
numbers  of  her  population,  or  the  tonnage  in  her  har 
bor,  or  the  size  of  her  bank  clearings,  or  how  many  ten 
thousand  strangers  she  can  cram  into  Canal  Street  on 
Mardi  Gras.  They  could  all  be  thrice  what  they  are 
and  she  still  be  a  village  if  she  chooses — chooses  to 
forget  her  splendid  spiritual  responsibilities  to  all  Dixie 
and  to  the  big  world." 

The  mention  of  Mardi  Gras  recalled  to  monsieur 
that  insolent  criticism  of  it  thrown  at  him  in  New 
York.  "You  billieve,"  he  asked,  "she  /or-get'  those 
rizponsibbleties  whiles  the  Carnival?" 

Philip  tossed  an  arm.  "Ah,  that  tawdry  lunacy! 
She's  just  had  it  again.  I've  spent  half  this  evening 
laboring  to  excuse  it  to  three  war-vexed  Englishmen 
and  a  Frenchman." 

"  Humph !  .  .  .  humph !  While  same  time  you'd 
like  to  cud  that  out,  eh?  Yo'  city's  greatez'  event  of 
the  year?" 

"Oh,  if  we  could!  Wouldn't  you?  Mr.  Durel, 
maybe  I  can't  see  it  nearly  as  small  to-night  as  I 
ought;  last  week's  glare  of  it  is  in  my  eyes  yet.  But 
when  a  great  modern  city,  capital  of  a  civilization, 

247 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

makes  that  organized  old  puerility — which  is  neither 
reality  nor  good  dream-stuff,  celebrates  no  achieve 
ment,  initiates  no  enterprise,  presents  no  contest  of 
strength  or  skill,  and  offers  no  illustration  worth  saving 
overnight  of  any  art,  literature,  or  other  refinement — 
makes  that,  I  say,  its  greatest  event  of  the  year,  the 
sooner  she  cuts  it  out  the  better — the  happier  for  her 
— and  Dixie." 

"Mon  Dieu!"  The  Creole  stopped  in  the  road. 
In  all  his  dreaming  he  had  never  seen  a  son  of  New 
Orleans  strike  his  mother,  mother-city,  so  ruffianly  a 
blow.  Yet  now  he  resumed  his  way:  "You  said  that 
to  those  men  there?" 

"Not  a  word  of  it !  I  wouldn't  say  it  even  to  you  if 
we  didn't  both,  in  our  different  ways,  love  New  Or 
leans.  But  now,  see;  if  one  of  these  islanders,  hearing 
us  call  New  Orleans  the  capital  of  a  certain  proud  off 
shoot  of  civilization  fondly  known  as  Dixie,  should  ask 
us  what  features  she  can  show  as  exponents  justifying 
the  offshoot,  could  we  name  our  Carnival  week?  I 
couldn't.  I'd  as  soon  point  them  to  our  management 
of  the  race  question,  which  every  difference  in  their 
management  of  it  here  condemns." 

Again  the  Creole  halted,  and  but  for  his  dream, 
never  out  of  mind,  would  have  turned  and  moved 
away.  Instead,  he  once  more  walked  on,  asking: 
"Mr.  Cazzleton,  w'y  do  you  drag  me  aggain  into  thad 
subjec',  here,  to-night?" 

Philip  let  out  an  abashed  laugh.  "  I  won't !  I  won't ! 
I  beg  your  pardon.  But  misery  loves  company,  and 

248 


LOVER  AND  DREAMER 

that  subject  has  stuck  its  nose  up  to  mine  every  hour 
that  I've  been  in  this  island.  I  shan't  mention  it 
again!" 

"Well,  me,  I  rig-ret  to  'ave  mention'  thad  Carnival. 
But  same  time,  ad  home  yonder,  you  know,  they'll  tell 
you  how  thad  pay'  prettie  well,  thad  Carnival." 

"Yes,  in  dollars;  and  I've  no  contempt  for  dollars — 
worthily  got.  But  it  pays  only  in  the  dollar  of  the 
moment.  It  reaps  the  dollars  and  loses  what  they're 
for;  loses  in  civilization — for  New  Orleans — for  all 
Dixie.  Why,  sir,  imagine  half  that  yearly  flood  of 
outlay  being  put  into  the  things  that  truly  refine  and 
glorify  a  city;  that  make  it  a  splendid  instrument  for 
a  modern  civilization  to  strike  its  chords  on." 

Monsieur  bristled  again.     "W'at  city  does  that?" 

And  again  Philip  laughed.  "None  that  I  know  of. 
But  if  I  knew  of  seven  I'd  stay  in  New  Orleans." 

"You  thing  New  Orleans  would  diz-ire  you  to  stay  ?" 

Once  more  the  laugh.  "Mr.  Durel,  when  you  were 
a  boy  did  you  never  wonder  if  your  father  wouldn't 
be  glad  to  be  rid  of  you?  And  yet  you  didn't  run 
away.  I  don't  ask  if  I'm  wanted.  I  can't  afford  it. 
I  stay." 

"Cann'  afford  that  hi  dollars?"  asked  monsieur, 
pained. 

"Neither  in  dollars  nor  in  spirit,"  was  the  light 
reply. 

The  father  of  Rosalie  saw  straight  into  the  lover's 
heart  just  where  the  lover  fancied  himself  best  hid  and 
was  best  hid  from  himself.  "  Love  rarely  sees  its  own 

249 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

shadow/*  thought  monsieur,  charitably,  and  while  he 
did  so  Philip's  self-perception  cleared. 

"Mr.  Durel,"  he  began,  but  then  walked  on  in  si 
lence. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Cazzleton?" 

"You're  mighty  patient  with  me,  sir." 

"Yes ?  Well— yes,  I  thing  so,"  said  the  Creole,  with 
a  glance  to  the  youth,  whose  smile  was  so  winning  that 
monsieur,  himself  smiling,  wondered  why  he  ever 
should  have  been  impatient. 

"Also,"  he  added,  "I'm  well  please5  that  we've  talk' 
aggain  on  those  public  queztion',  biccause  thad  show' 
the  both  of  uz  how  I'm  patien'  with  you.  An'  likewise 
I  thing  you,  you've  had  patienz'  with  me.  An'  I  thing 
now  we  are  truly  frien'.  Tis  that  what  I'm  walking 
with  you  to  say.  You  see?  Biccause  sinz'  we  'ave 
now  bitwin  uz  a  so  clear  un'erstan'ing — not  abboud 
those  politic' — we'll  never  have  that  kind — but " 

"I  know;  the  other  thing.    And  that's  all  right." 

"Yes,  an'  by  that  un'erstan'ing  we  'ave  no  longer — 
bitwin  any  Cazzleton  an'  any  Durel — the  smallez'  ne- 
cezzity  to  rim-ain  appart  any  mo'  than  to  meet  to 
gether." 

"That's  fair,  sir.    You're  generous." 

"An'  so  tha'z  not  by  a  necezzity  that  I  make  you  the 
inquiry,  Wat  you  prop-ose  to  do  to-morrow?" 

"To-morrow?  I — I'm  not  quite  committed  to  any 
thing." 

"Ah?  I  thought  you  are  always  commit'  to  some 
thing.  Well,  to-morrow,  neither  me.  An'  tha'z  al- 

250 


LOVER  AND  DREAMER 

ways  the  safez'  way:  'Keep  in  thad  miT  of  the  road !' 
You  muz*  egsplain  that  Ammericanism  to  yo'  frien' 

Murray." 

"  Mr.  Murray  did  want  me  to  go  with  him  to-morrow 
to  see  the  undersea  gardens." 

"An'  here  he's  coming  now;  looking  for  you;  but 
looking  where  I  thing  you  have  seldom  the  precaution 
to  be  foun'— in  thad  miT  of  the  road,  eh?" 


251 


XXXIX 
GARDENS  UNDER  THE  SEA 

NEXT  morning  the  Creoles,  at  their  inn,  breakfasted 
together  in  a  veranda  that  overlooked,  almost  over 
hung,  the  sunny  harbor  studded  with  verdant,  rocky 
islets. 

In  the  smallest  hour  of  the  night  Rosalie  had  heard 
her  father  return  to  his  room;  yet  now  in  the  eyes  of 
both  there  was  a  refreshed  brightness,  and  on  his  brow 
a  better  calm  than  had  been  there  for  many  a  day. 

Their  talk  ran  lightly,  now  on  things  in  sight,  now 
on  trifles  remembered  in  their  dear  home  city.  They 
felt  no  impulse  to  mention  the  previous  evening  or 
even  to  rest  their  glances  on  each  other;  the  wide  scene 
was  beautifully  peaceful,  and  to  Louisianians  there  was 
an  inspiration  of  more  than  mere  novelty  in  a  watery 
landscape  built  on  rock.  "A  landscape,"  said  Rosa 
lie,  "with  an  anatomy  I" 

Down  in  a  distant  turn  of  the  bay  a  war-ship  or  two 
rode  at  anchor,  another  rested  in  dry-dock;  but  up  at 
the  town's  front  as  many  merchant  steamers  were 
busy,  and  everywhere  pleasure-boats  of  faultless  line 
and  towering  spread  of  wing  glided  near  and  far  and 
near  again  to  lure  to  a  perfect  day  on  the  water.  Di 
rectly  across  the  harbor  a  certain  big  hotel  seemed  to 
stand  higher,  spread  wider,  above  the  town's  white 

252 


GARDENS  UNDER  THE  SEA 

roofs  than  yesterday,  as  if  it  had  drawn  nearer  in  the 
night. 

But  that  was  only  Rosalie's  unspoken  fancy,  not 
monsieur's.  He  dropped  into  English.  "That  liT 
thing  over  yonder,  with  steam  up,  at  right  of  the  hotel 
an'  of  the  ferry  pier — is  that  not  the  boat  that  take' 
passenger'  every  fine  day  out  paz'  the  harbor  to  see 
the  marvel  of  those  coral  reef  through  those  glazz 
bottom'?" 

She  said  it  was  and  that  it  always  touched  at  the  inn. 
"Then  w'y  we  'ave  never  make  thad  trip?" 
"Ah,  why!    When  every  day  I'm  begging  you !" 
"But  always  you  prit-en'  tha'z  for  yo'  hown  plea 
sure!" 

"Only  because  you  prefer  my  pleasure  to  yours !" 
"Then,  if  'tis  fo'  me,  we'll  go  thiz  morning !" 
He  rose.     The  boat  blew  her  whistle;  they  saw  its 
white  plume,  then  heard  its  note;  but  Rosalie  kept  her 
seat. 

"Ah,  to-day,  papa,  I  think  we'll  have  some  rain." 
"Ridiculouz!" 

"But  I  think,  outside  there,  we'll  find  it  rough." 
"No,  that  w'izzle,  tha'z  the  sign  'twill  be  tranquil." 
"Ah,  but  that  crowd !    Peter  and  John ! " 
"There  will  be  none,  we  are  juz'  halve  bitwin  two 
steamer  day'.     See,  she  is  leaving.     She's  coming.    I'll 
sen'  for  some  wrap'."    A  servant  was  beckoned.    The 
little  steamer  had  begun  to  cross  among  the  swift  plea 
sure-boats  as  among  a  flock  of  gulls. 
Yet  Rosalie  still  kept  her  seat.     "I  think  'twill  be 
253 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

better,  papa,  if  we  take  this  afternoon,  alone,  one  of 
those  sailboats  and  make  a  little  turn  just  inside, 
round  about  those  lovely  islands." 

"Ah !  An'  yezterday  you  say  for  uz  that  coz'  too 
much!" 

One  of  the  sailboats,  which  twice  in  mid-harbor  had 
encircled  the  steamer,  now  swept  by  her  again  and 
came  near.  Two  passengers,  men,  stood  in  her  well. 
The  girl  rose  up.  The  two  men  were  Murray  and 
Philip;  they  saluted.  Their  craft  touched  the  inn's 
small  landing-pier  and  held  fast,  and  the  unsmiling 
Briton  spoke:  "If  you  please,  this  ship  is  bound  for 
Neptune's  gardens.  But  she's  in  distress;  terribly 
overprovisioned;  must  have  two  more  consumers  or 
perrish.  Come,  you  said  lawst  night  you  had  no  en 
gagement." 

Monsieur  ruefully  spread  his  palms.  "Yes,  but 
tha'z  impossible !  Sinz'  half  an  hour  I'm  begging 
Rosalie  to  make  that  same  trip — on  that  stimmer.  But 
she's  af-raid !  Of  the  rain,  the  win',  thad  crowd " 

"Ah,  papa !  Ah-h,  papa !  How  can  you  make  such 
a  mistake  ?  My  only  cause  of  hesitation  is  suspecting 
you  to  pretend  you  want  to  go  because  every  day  I'm 
begging  you !  I'll  be  delighted  !" 

When,  down  the  bay,  among  those  ships  of  war,  the 
sailboat  once  more  skimmed  by  the  excursion-steamer, 
four  passengers,  those  four,  sat  under  her  towering  sail 
and  answered  pleasantly  the  wavings  of  Peter  and 
John. 

If  ever  a  cluster  of  hills,  vales,  islets,  waters,  and 
254 


GARDENS  UNDER  THE  SEA 

undersea  gardens  was  pre-eminently  designed  for  the 
special  tillage  of  love,  such  a  one  was  Bermuda  that 
day.  And  love  took  the  tillage,  for  joy  of  it,  not  for 
need,  while  Rosalie,  on  the  Scot's  strenuous  instiga 
tion  and  in  splendid  renouncement  of  the  gorgeous 
scene,  sang  over  the  marvellous  waters: 

"'Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare, 
The  desert  were  a  paradise 
If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there/" 

They  found  time  a-plenty  for  as  much  conversation 
in  quartet — on  social  and  civil  New  Orleans  and  New 
York  in  contrast,  for  example — as  the  finest  instinct 
for  decorum  could  prompt,  before  they  humored  the 
stronger  impulse  to  drop  into  pairs,  the  juniors  for 
ward,  the  elders  aft.  Found  time  for  barcaroles,  can 
zonets,  serenades.  Found  miles  of  waters  to  be  flashed, 
glided,  bounded  over,  waters  of  astounding  transpar 
ency  and  loveliness  and  diversity  of  hue,  before  the 
choicest  undersea  corals  were  arrived  over  and  the 
boat  folded  her  great  wings  and  drifted  passively  in 
the  breezy,  drenching  sunlight;  glorious  miles,  before 
the  "submarine  cameras,"  as  Rosalie  and  Philip  named 
the  glass-bottomed  boxes,  were  brought  out,  and  they, 
best  content  with  one,  bent  over  it  and  shared  together 
every  rapture  that  miraculous  beauty  can  inspire  in 
two  spirits  consumingly  aware  of  each  other  yet  for 
bidden  to  sound  the  golden  note  that  hung  on  their 
heartstrings. 

255 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

In  time  the  sails  rose  and  spread  again,  the  helm 
came  down,  eyes  returned  to  the  upper  world,  and 
ecstasy  reposed,  a  tired  butterfly.  Behind  the  great 
sail  the  two  seniors  discussed  the  transatlantic  war — 
armies,  fleets,  gold-shipments,  loans,  neutralities,  and 
international  law. 

Forward  the  juniors  talked  of  other  things  near 
and  far,  Bermudian,  Louisianian.  Their  one  necessity 
was  to  keep  speech  going.  Only  silence  might  not  be. 
One  appreciable  interval  between  remarks,  a  single 
meeting  of  glances  in  the  interval,  and  their  pledges  to 
monsieur  and  to  each  one's  own  soul  would  have  been 
but  broken  pitchers.  The  peril  was  constant  even 
when  their  babble  kept  the  averting  charm  potent. 

For  instance:  While  Philip  called  attention  to  the 
countless  purple  shadows  everywhere  on  the  waters, 
marking  the  leagues  of  hidden  reefs  that  encircled  the 
island  and  made  her,  the  island,  hopelessly  inaccessible 
to  any  adventurer  from  whom  she  withheld  her  own 
welcoming  guidance,  he  could  not  put  away  the  thought 
that  Rosalie  was  such  an  island  to  him  and,  right  there, 
half-facing  him,  was  herself  half-blinded  by  that  glar 
ing  fact. 

Or  again  for  instance:  When  Rosalie  shifted  the 
scene  to  the  city  they  loved  best,  adorned  its  most 
preferred  drawing-rooms  with  Creole  and  American 
fathers,  matrons,  beaux,  and  demoiselles  in  the  varied 
activities  of  chandelier  light  and  evening  dress,  and 
asked  the  latest  quotations  of  its  social  market,  he 
could  answer  all  other  queries  with  better  directness 

256 


GARDENS  UNDER  THE  SEA 

than  those  about  madame  and  the  judge.  Somehow 
that  pair  seemed  to  have  become  so  definitely  a  part  of 
this  pair's  case,  or  else  a  complete  case  of  their  own,  or 
both  at  once,  that  for  these  two  to  talk  of  them — here 
alone,  with  their  own  plight  frowning  over  them,  and 
the  mermaids'  gardens  beckoning  beneath  and  all 
around — was,  so  to  speak,  to  lean  too  far  out  of  the 
boat. 

Of  course  the  lover's  evasions  worked  their  own  de 
feat.  "Without  an  exterior  sign  from  Rosalie  he  knew 
that  she  saw  through  them  all,  saw  and  had  long  seen ; 
and  as  they  talked  on  of  twenty  matters  Bermudian 
and  Orleanian,  they  could  think  of  but  one — that  heart 
matter  in  New  Orleans;  of  its  significance  to  themselves 
here,  to  monsieur,  and  to  the  half-forgotten  aunt.  At 
first  it  shed  promise,  a  rainbow  light.  It  was  very, 
very  beautiful  for  those  two  at  home,  robbed  of  each 
other  in  a  far-gone  past,  to  come  even  now  spiritually 
into  each  other's  possession;  beautiful  as  a  dream  to 
Rosalie,  and  much  like  one,  the  relation  being  so  ex 
clusively  spiritual,  so  wholly  intangible,  as  she  still 
assumed  it  to  be  and  to  be  destined  to  remain. 

But  all  the  more  the  idle  conversation  had  to  be 
kept  going.  Now  it  hovered  over  things  in  sight,  now 
swept  once  more  across  seas  to  circle  round  the  new 
antique-shop. 

"No,  since  the  Carnival  its  business  was  dwindling !" 

Thence  the  talk  flitted  to  the  missionary  college  and 
the  Holdens.  "Yes,  they  were  well." 

And  thence  it  passed  to  Ovide,  his  books,  wife,  and 
257 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

rear  room,  the  room  best  remembered  by  Rosalie — 
with  a  fresh  pang  of  perplexity — as  the  one  where,  on 
the  afternoon  of  Zephire's  smash-up,  she  and  grand'- 
mere  had  found  the  two  Castletons  mysteriously  clos 
eted  with  the  black  man.  Philip  mentioned  the  place 
to  tell  the  droll  story  of  Ovide's  wife  and  a  child  who 
came  to  the  shop  with  books  to  sell;  how  the  child, 
speaking  of  their  owner's  extreme  age,  was  in  doubt 
whether  it  was  eighty-four  or  forty-eight. 


258 


XL 
LOVE  TAKEN  ABACK 

IT  was  very  amusing!  "And  Ovide,  what  did  he 
say?" 

"He  let  his  wife  say  it." 

"Ah,  yes;  and  she,  how  is  that  droll  about  her?" 

"She  wouldn't  let  me  laugh.  Told  me  to  laugh  at 
myself.  Preached  !  Said:  'Young  folks  all  alike.  You 
all  blin'  alike — 'bout  grown-ups.  De  fires  o'  life  har'ly 
bu'n  clair  in  yo'  forerunners  afo'  you  take  fo'  granted 
dey  bu'nt  out,  leavin'  dess  empty  shell'.  I  tell  you, 
us  real  grown-ups  ain't  empty  shell'.  Us  ain't — empty 
—shell'!'" 

That  was  amusing,  too,  but  the  mirth  was  brief. 
"Why  did  she  say  that  to— to  you?" 

"Oh,  I  stood  for  youth  in  general,  I  suppose." 

There  was  room  for  doubt.  The  eyes  of  the  pair 
encountered  and  Rosalie  felt  a  flush  of  enlightenment. 
The  old  woman's  preachment  meant  Philip  and  her  in 
particular,  them  and  their  two  dearest  "forerunners"; 
meant  that  the  same  passion,  hi  the  same  incarnate 
fulness,  which  was  making  life — making  this  very  hour 
— so  cruelly  sweet  for  these  two,  was  making  it  as 
sweet  and  as  cruel  for  grand 'mere;  for  beautiful  grand'- 
mere,  making  it  so  a  second  time,  with  a  lifetime  of 
saintly  resignation  in  between. 

It  should  not  be !  In  a  moment  as  brief  as  that  un- 
259 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

uttered  cry  the  soul  of  the  quiet  girl  was  transformed. 
It  should  not  be!  At  last  the  quiet  sufferer's  whole 
inner  being,  rational  and  irrational,  sprang  to  arms  in 
revolt.  And,  as  strange  as  that,  was  this — that  all  the 
mute  arraignments  that  swarmed  from  her  heart  were 
against  the  youth  at  her  side.  Suddenly  in  her  mind 
he — he — was  both  the  occasion  and  the  agent  of  all 
these  fettering,  crippling,  heart-breaking  entanglements 
of  loves  and  fortunes.  Even  the  exiled  Zephire  seemed 
his  excusable  victim.  Like  a  mob  through  burning 
streets,  insurrection  ran  through  her  every  vein,  de 
crying  Philip  Castleton,  Philip  Castleton.  This  last 
thing,  this  last  thing,  should  not  be,  and  he  should  see 
to  it  that  it  should  not  be.  How  the  prevention  was 
to  be  worked  she  knew  not,  but  her  soul  cried  to  her — 
womanlike — that  whatever  must  be  done  there  is  a 
way  to  do,  and  that  the  lover  must  find  the  way,  find 
it  unprompted. 

Now  she  could  meet,  could  even  seek,  his  glance. 
By  that  sign  he  discerned  what  the  old  woman's  words 
had  conveyed  to  her.  And  also  he  saw,  to  his  unspeak 
able  consternation,  that  in  some  way  impossible  for 
him  to  harmonize  with  justice  or  reason  it  had  sent 
her  heart  beating  backward  from  him  in  this  earth 
quake  revulsion  of  sentiment.  As  totally  without 
warning  as  one  might  be  swept  overboard;  as  clearly 
to  be  seen  as  if  within  hand's  reach,  yet  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea !  She  was  lost !  All  her  sweet  courtesies 
and  Creole  graces  were  here  with  her  yet,  but  suddenly 
they  were  empty  shells.  He  gazed  in  pain,  and  she, 

2GO 


LOVE  TAKEN  ABACK 

ever  talking,  tinkling  on  in  her  shining  trivialities, 
could  meet  even  his  gaze,  while  "You  are  odious" 
whispered  the  empty  shells,  under  the  talk.  He  red 
dened  with  injured  wonder,  with  inward  meanings, 
stumbled  in  their  conversational  pitter-patter,  laughed, 
and  stayed  red. 

\Yhereupon — for  enraged  love,  love  bent  on  its  own 
death,  always  inclines  to  pick  some  small  false  issue — 
she  reverted  to  the  first  inclemency  that  had  ever 
darkened  their  sky.  "Ah,  tell  me !  Since  comparing 
other  countries,  how  is  that  going,  that" — the  phrase 
came  with  a  touch  of  mockery — "that  ' Southern 
Question'?" 

"Oh,  that?"— he  reddened  deeper— "it's  stopped 
going,  as  usual.  In  the  public  mind  it's  a  clock  run 
down,  on  the  striking  side." 

"But  you've  thought  it  your  duty  to  wind  it  up 
again,  eh?"  Her  reference  was  to  his  latest  printed 
article,  "The  Southern  Answer."  The  subtlety  of  her 
tone  was  galling. 

"Yes.    I'm  being  roughly  handled  for  thinking  so." 

"On  the  newspapers;  yes,  I  know.  And  what  is 
that  'Southern  Answer' — according  to  you?" 

"  Nothing.  We  find  none.  Recriminations,  excuses, 
we  produce  in  wholesale  lots,  but  no  true  reply  I" 

"H'mm!  I'm  sorry.  But  anyhow  you  just  love 
to  make  the  clock  strike,  eh?"  She  saw  him  flame  up, 
but  would  not  let  him  retort.  "You  haven't  had 
trouble  about  that  with  anybody,  eh? — besides  the 
newspapers?" 

261 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Only  with  one,  the  most  troublesome  man  I  ever 
met"  ' 

"Yourself?  Truly?  Yes?  Well,  you  know?  I 
think  so !" 

Merciless  word !  An  hour  earlier  that  reply  would 
have  been  pure  sweetness,  the  breath  of  a  garden;  now 
it  was  the  billows  going  over  him  in  a  sunken  garden, 
so  had  her  spirit  altered.  "You  are  trouble  itself, 
tribulation  and  torture ! "  said  that  self-tortured  spirit, 
to  his,  behind  the  word,  and  then  to  itself  cried  again : 
"'M£re!  'Mere !  It  shall  not  be!  You  shall  have 
your  heart's  desire !  Somehow,  somehow,  this  time, 
whoever  suffers,  you  shall  have  joy ! "  Retaining  her 
lightness  she  spoke  again: 

"How  is  he  troubling  you  now,  that  most  trouble 
some?" 

"  Oh,  through  a  small  fact  omitted  in  my  article  and 
pointed  out  to  me  last  evening  at  dinner." 

"Ah,  facts  I    They  fatigue  me ! " 

"And  me!"  laughed  Philip.  "They  weary  me  to 
the  bone!" 

"Then  why  do  you  run  so  hard  after  them?" 

He  flushed  again,  his  voice  dropped.  "Better  after 
them  than  from  them." 

"Well,  what  was  it,  that  fact  they  pointed  out?" 

"  Mademoiselle, ' ' 

"Mr.  Castleton, " 

"When  the  band  plays  'Dixie'  or  'Swanee  River' 
our  fancy  pictures  'the  old  folks  at  home/  doesn't  it? 
The  old-time  landed  squire  on  the  old  plantation?" 

262 


LOVE  TAKEN  ABACK 

"Ah,  yes.    Well,  of  course,  naturally !" 

"The  squire  was  our  social  unit,  the  keystone  of  our 
whole  Southern  scheme,  was  he  not?" 

"Was?"  This  time  it  was  the  girl  who  colored. 
"Ah,  yes;  doubtless,  yes;  assuredly  he  was" 

"Well,  the  small  fact  you  ask  me  for  is — he's  van 
ished.  Our  keystone's  dropped  out.  He's  being  in 
dustrialized,  capitalized,  commercialized,  modernized 
out  of  existence.  Now,  a  revolution  may,  conceivably, 
momentarily,  go  backward;  an  evolution  never;  and 
— shall  I  tell  you  what  they  made  me  confess  last 
night  ?  You  won't  like  it." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  the  mental  reservation  that  it 
would  suit  her  better  if  she  didn't  like  it. 

"Well,  'twas  this:  That  the  whole  scheme  we  call 
'Dixie'  is  being  superseded,  overwhelmed,  by  an  in 
exorable,  economic  evolution,  with  our  national  unity 
and  the  world's  unity  behind  it,  pushing."  The  lover 
paused,  gazed.  Faintly,  he  had  seen  his  listener  flinch 
— flinch  not  so  much  from  his  "fact"  as  from  him,  and 
he  was  stung  as  by  a  whip-lash.  Yonder  in  Vanity 
Fair,  a  year  before,  he  had  not  correctly  described  his 
temper.  It  was  not  quick,  but  when  it  burned  it 
burned  inordinately  hot. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  and  again  she  flinched, 
though  she  smiled,  "I  know  what  it  means  to  us  for 
me  to  thrust  that  fact  on  you;  but  I  cannot,  will  not, 
keep  any  least — any  last — fraction  of  your  regard  which 
requires  me  to  conceal  what  I  think  about  things  that 
I  am  bound  to  think  about.  That  would  be  to  honor 

263 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

neither  you  nor  me  with  the  honor  we  both  have  every 
right  to  claim." 

Rosalie  bowed  twice  and  again  in  smiling  approval. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  "yes,"  while  all  the  world  and  all 
continuance  in  it  grew  as  bitterly  worthless  to  her  as 
to  him.  "That's  true.  Yes.  Of  course." 

The  Scot  left  M.  Durel  talking  with  their  black 
skipper  and  came  and  sat  with  the  disputants.  Would 
her  lover  press  the  subject  in  the  hearing  of  this  alien 
intruder  ?  She  must  know !  For  him  to  do  that 
would  be  to  help  put  love  out  of  its  misery.  "Yes," 
she  said  again,  "go  on  to  the  end." 

"I  may  as  well,"  he  laughed  to  her  and  the  Scot, 
desperately.  "Mademoiselle,  our  old  Dixie,  and  our 
old  New  Orleans  as  well,  are  passing,  going,  have  got 
togo- 

"Oh,  assuredly!  And  consequently  you  contend — 
what?" 

"Merely  that  we  who  love  them " 

"Love  them— oh-h-h-h!" 

"We  who  dearly  love  them  ought  to  have  a  well- 
shapen,  rational  policy  for  speeding  them  on,  instead 
of  a  shapeless,  emotional  one  for  holding  them  back." 

"Yes?  You  think  so?  Papa,  wait!  I'm  coming 
there!" 

The  boat  had  just  gone  about.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet.  Philip  offered  a  steadying  hand,  but  she  took 
the  Scot's. 


264 


XLI 
ENTER  FEVER 

THE  day  wore  by.  Its  sunbeams  were  nearly  level 
when  the  small  excursion-steamer,  returning  from  the 
sea-gardens,  came  back  among  the  islets  of  the  harbor. 

Again  the  sailboat's  lofty  canvas  glided  past,  and 
again  its  four  passengers  were  waved  to  by  Peter  and 
John,  amiably  envying  their  better  equipment  for  care- 
freedom  and  pleasures  of  the  vacant  mind.  At  their 
inn's  pier  the  two  Creoles  praised  the  hours  they  had 
spent,  and  said  good-by,  and  the  sailboat  turned  and 
crossed  to  the  big  hotel  with  Philip  and  the  Scot. 

A  vast  sun  went  down  behind  the  red,  green, 'pearl, 
purple,  and  golden  bay,  beyond  hundreds  of  miles  of 
ocean,  beyond  all  peace-girt,  sea-hidden  America. 
Night  followed,  lone  sentries  paced  their  walls,  their 
decks,  ships'  bells  tapped  double  notes  to  the  passing 
hours,  and  the  harbor  imaged  back  the  stars.  Then 
out  of  a  peacock  sea,  with  other  hundreds  of  ocean 
miles  and  all  war-tortured  Europe  in  between,  the  sun 
rose  again.  In  all  those  hours,  sunset,  night,  dawn, 
and  sunrise,  two  gazers  upon  water,  land,  and  sky — 
one  on  each  side  the  beautiful  harbor — had  harried 
their  souls  to  plead  each  his  or  her  cruel  grievance  to 

265 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

self,  to  the  merciless  splendors  of  nature,  and  to  a  pre 
occupied  world. 

It  should  have  been  easy  to  state.  A  lover  and 
maiden  had  renounced  each  other's  love  without  re 
nouncing  their  own  and  without  renouncing  each 
other's  society;  an  agonizing  thing  to  each,  yet  an 
every-day  occurrence  wherever  men  submit  to  maidens 
and  maidens  submit  to  parental  discipline.  Then,  to 
rescue  from  shipwreck  the  fortunes  of  the  girl  and  her 
kindred,  the  lover  had  made  a  business  arrangement 
which  unavoidably  gave  that  renunciation  a  further 
binding  force  that  was  like  bands  of  steel.  Now  when 
the  relenting  father,  vision-prompted,  sought  to  relax 
those  bands,  their  nature  made  the  first  motion  toward 
that  release  impossible  to  him,  to  his  daughter,  or  to 
the  lover,  though  neither  daughter  nor  lover  could 
quite  see  the  other's  helplessness. 

Thus  far  the  way  was  clear,  terribly  clear. 

But  that  hour  among  the  sea-gardens  had  suddenly 
worked  an  intolerable  obscuration.  It  had  brought  to 
view  two  other  sufferers,  far  away,  and,  through  sheer 
new  heartache  and  self-reproach  for  them,  had  be 
clouded  the  daughter's  mental  vision.  As  long  as  the 
renunciation  had  been  but  an  outward  act,  and  its 
bonds  had  held  apart  only  the  one  pair  while  inwardly 
its  perpetual  sacrifice  was  an  undying  fire  on  love's  al 
tar,  it  had  been  made  endurable  by  a  rapture  of  mar 
tyrdom  and  imperishable  hope.  But  when  it  was  found 
laying  half  its  load  on  other  and  beloved  hearts,  and 
when  it  seemed  to  become  a  renunciation  not  of  love's 

266 


ENTER  FEVER 

yearnings  alone  but  of  love  itself,  life  was  life  no  more; 
nor  love,  love;  nor  truth,  truth;  nor  reason,  reason; 
all  was  anguish. 

A  maid  tapped  on  M.  Durel's  chamber-door,  tapped 
again,  and  was  turning  away,  when  he  appeared  from 
the  story  below,  with  the  highway's  white  dust  on  his 
feet.  As  deep  in  trouble  as  ever,  he  had  set  out  for 
his  usual  sea-cliff,  but  had  retraced  his  steps,  anxious 
for  Rosalie. 

"Your  daughter,  sir,  would  like  to  see  you." 

He  found  Rosalie's  door  ajar  and  her  standing  with 
a  brow  against  its  edge.  "Papa,  I  suppose  the  ferry 
boat  is  running  by  this  time?" 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  it." 

"Will  you  please  go  over  and  engage  our  passage  on 
the  next  steamer?" 

"Ah,  yes,  if  that  is  the  best  thing  to  do." 

"It  is  the  only  thing." 

"Yet  at  the  same  time  there  is  no  haste." 

"Yes,  there  is  haste.  I  must  see  'mere  at  the  first 
moment  possible." 

"For  what,  my  child?" 

She  spoke  audibly,  though  wholly  to  herself.  "I 
would  give  all  I've  got  to  see  her  right  now,  right  here." 

"My  daughter,  listen.  When  I  had  that  vision  of 
your  mother,  I  confided  it  to  you.  Can  you  confide 
nothing  to  your  father?" 

Her  brow  drooped.  "There  is  nothing.  If  there 
ever  was  anything — "  She  lifted  a  hand  and  let  it  fall. 

267 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"  Then  anyhow  tell  me  this :  what  happened — yester 
day?" 

"Papa,  I  cannot  remember.  I  could  not  be  sure 
even  then." 

"Certainly  something  happened,  my  child." 

"Yes,  but  I — I  can't  think  what  it  was.  I  can't 
think  at  all.  Papa,  I  fear  you'll  miss  the  ferry." 

"  Chere,  till  you  can  think,  it  would  be  safer  to  wait. 
You  would  not  desire  to  be  unreasonable." 

"  Yes !  I — I  must.  Reasons  are  not  for  me.  My 
reason  is  as  tangled  as  a  sick  girl's  hair."  She  smiled 
again.  "The  only  thing  to  do  with  it  is — cut  it  off." 

"Of  what  did  you  talk  yesterday,  Rose?" 

She  broke  laughingly  into  English.  "Politics!  Al 
ways  his  ruling  passion!  Forever  politics!"  She 
drooped  again. 

And  there  Alphonse  Durel  showed  himself  in  a  new 
light.  "Ah,  cherie,  you  know,  same  way  a  woman 
muz'  stan'  by  her  n/-igion,  a  man  he's  ob-lige'  to  stan' 
by  his  politic'.  Me,  I  wou'n'  hoi'  that  aggainz'  a 
man." 

"Ah,  that's  nothing;  'tis  what  he  holds  against  me." 

"My  daughter !    Tha'z  impossible ! " 

"No,  'tis  true.  The  way  he  talks  his  politics  shows 
that  he  doesn't  think  he  is  the  one  who  is  being  re 
nounced.  And  I,  I'm  not  renounced,  for  you;  I'm 
repudiated  for  his  politics.  And  I  can't  complain  of 
that,  because  I've  discovered  he's  very,  very  selfish. 
I'm  convinced  he  would  be  willing  to  sacrifice  even  his 
aunt ! — for  his  politics !  Papa,  if  you  please  to  not  miss 

268 


ENTER  FEVER 

that  ferry-boat!"  She  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
There  was  fever  in  it. 

"Why,  Rosalie " 

"Ah,  go.  If  you  please.  And  don't  bring  any  doc 
tor.  I'll  lie  down  till  you  return  if  you'll  only  not 
bring  a  doctor.  .  .  .  No,  he  would  put  me  to  sleep, 
and  I  abhor  to  sleep.  I  would  rather  be  hanged.  I 
have  so  much  to  think!" 

He  went,  making  no  promise  except  to  engage  state 
rooms,  and  on  his  return  brought  a  physician,  who 
lost  no  time  in  putting  the  sufferer  to  sleep. 

Meanwhile  Murray  had  found  Philip,  and  at  an 
early  breakfast — which  Philip,  once  beguiled  to,  was 
eating  savagely — proposed  a  walk. 


269 


XLII 
WITH  MURRAY  MEDDLING 

MURRAY  preferred  his  pipe,  Philip  a  cigar.  They 
set  off. 

"There  are  two  Pagets,"  said  the  Scot,  "East,  West. 
I'm  not  proposing  the  harbor  side  of  either,  but  a  bit 
of  ocean-shore,  south  side;  Elbow  Beach,  Elbow  Bay." 

"What  are  we  to  see  at  Elbow  Beach?" 

"An  old  wreck  out  on  the  reefs  if  you  want  an  ex 


cuse." 


"I  don't.  I  can  see  a  wreck  without  going  any 
where." 

"We'll  see  the  eternal  hills,  the  Atlantic,  heaven's 
blue  eyes,  and  each  other.  Would  you  want  more?" 

"No,  nor  less.  I  was  looking  for  you  when  you 
found  me." 

From  the  harbor  side  they  turned  south  over  the 
hills  and  soon  were  picking  their  way  among  the  rocks 
of  a  "tribe-road,"  the  Briton  leading  and  Philip  most 
unwontedly  and  fervidly  voluble.  "I  know  girls  do 
so,  but  an  angel  from  heaven  couldn't  have  persuaded 
me  that  she  could  do  it.  The  wind  itself  never  changed 
more  suddenly  or  more  clear  about.  'Twas  as  if  in 
one  flash  she'd  learned  something " 

"Or  guessed  it,  mayhap." 

"Guessed?  Well,  guessed  something  that  trans- 
27C 


WITH  MURRAY  MEDDLING 

formed  me  to  her,  and  as  if  in  that  flash  she'd  lost  all 
faith  in  my  outward  renunciation " 

"Or  inner  constancy— 

"No,  sir!  She  couldn't  doubt  both  at  once!  Lost 
faith,  I  say,  in  my  surrender  of  her  and  saw  me,  in  her 
imagination,  trying,  after  all,  to  buy,  to  bribe,  the  hap 
piness  I  couldn't  earn  or  beg.  But  why  do  you  say 
she  guessed  it?" 

"I  don't  say,  I  ask.  For  I  know  no  morrtal  told 
her  and  I  know  there  was  plenty  to  guess." 

Philip  halted  in  the  dry,  tumbled  sands  of  the  coral 
bluff's  on  which  they  had  emerged.  "Who  told  you  ?" 

"Lawndry.  I  guessed  it  firrst  and  worrmed  it  out 
of  him." 

"What  did  you  guess ?    What  has  he  told  you  ?" 

"That  mad  self-sacrifice  of  yours  and  the  judge's." 

"It  wasn't  mad  at  all." 

"It  was." 

"It  was  not,  Mr.  Murray;  it " 

"It  was,  Mr.  Castleton;  and  when  you  and  he  could 
commit  that  insanity  it's  'up  to  you,'  as  ye  say,  to  let 
this  Crreole  girrl — hearrt-torrn  for  her  father  and  her 
beautiful  grand'mere — it's  up  to  you  to  let  the  Crreole 
girrl  be  a  bit  daft — in  turrn." 

"She'll  never  claim  that  as  a  Creole  right." 

"She  need  not.     Come,  let's  thrash  the  thing  out." 

" Good  !    For  it's  thrashed  me  ever  since  she  left  us." 

"I  know,  Castleton.    Lord !    I  once  had  my  turn." 

Philip  was  surprised  and  touched;  the  judge  had 
never  told  him  that.  As  the  two  sat  down  in  a  shade 

271 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

of  young  cedars  and  faced  the  southern  blue,  above, 
below,  the  Scot,  for  relief,  said:  "Yon  way's  the  West 
Indies,  if  we  could  see  over  old  Neptune's  hump- 
shoulders." 

The  lover  smiled.  " Let's  skip  the  West  Indies;  there 
are  other  humps  I'd  a  lot  rather  see  over." 

"Well,  for  hump  the  first,  I  call  your  self-sacrifice 
insanity;  yet  once  I  was  as  insane — unsane — for  one  I 
loved,  knowing  she  loved  me  and  counting  that  knowl 
edge  treasure  enough." 

"It  is !    'Twas  all  /  asked,  sir,  for  the  rest  of  life." 

"Well,  and  if  I  guess  right — maybe  I  don't — 'twas 
all  your  Crreole  girrl  asked  till,  suddenly  to  her,  up 
springs  another  claimant,  dearrer  to  her  than " 

"Another  claimant — "  Philip  started,  stared. 
"How  much  of  my  talk  did  you  hear  yesterday?" 

"All  you  wanted  hearrd.  You  paraded  it,  you 
know." 

The  young  man  mused  aloud.  "Another  claimant 
on  her " 

"Ay,  on  her  love;  and  an  equal  partner  in  her  sacri 
fice,  or  more  than  equal." 

"Mr.  Murray,  I  believe — you've — hit  it!  You're  a 
seer."  Both  men  laughed. 

"No,  it's  you're  blind,  or  just  I'm  sane,  or  not  quite 
insane.  So  I  say  give  your  Crreole  girrl  the  same  two 
liberties  you  claim;  the  same  unselfishness — or  a  finer; 
the  same  unreason — or  a  wilder.  We  men,  laddie, 
rarrely  appreciate  in  women  the  strength  of  other 
sorts  o'  love  that  may  conflict  with  the  love  of  maid 

272 


WITH  MURRAY  MEDDLING 

for  man.  We  say,  'Oh,  y'r  grandmither !'  not  drream- 
ing  that  it's  just  the  dear  grandmither — be  she  in  the 
sere  leaf  or  yet  bonnie,  who  may  be  cause  enough  for 
such  conflict:  enough  and  to  spare." 

Philip  answered  eagerly :  "  As  a  generality,  allowed ! 
But,  my  dear  sir,  in  this  case,  away  back  of  that  point, 
why  should  a  claim,  real  or  fanciful,  of  my  generosity 
on  mademoiselle's  gratitude  not  bring  us  together, 
and  those  other  two  with  us,  rather  than  hold  us 
apart?" 

"Man,  it  should  do  neither!  But  away  back  oj 
that  again  lies  your  claim  on  her  father's  gratitude,  and 
that  claim — he  feeling  to  you  as  he  long  did — she  can 
never  tolerate  and  remain  the  supernal  creature  she  is." 

The  lover  responded  abstractedly:  "To  the  million 
that  would  seem  pretty  flimsy  preaching." 

"To  the  mil' — Lorrd !  what  have  souls  like  hers — or 
even  yours — to  do  with  the  million?" 

"Sometimes,"  said  Philip,  "the  million  are  right." 
Suddenly  he  warmed  again:  "But,  right  or  wrong,  why 
should  our  separation  hold  those  other  two  apart?" 

"  It  should  not !  For  this  is  their  lawst  chawnce. 
That's  what  the  girrl  sees  and  is  mad  wi'  grief  to  see." 

"But  why  should  she  think  it  will  part  them?" 

"For  one  reason:  Taught  by  her  own  unselfishness — 
as  far  above  yours  as  yours  is  above  the  common — she 
fearrs  they  will  never  wed  leaving  you  and  her  un 
joined." 

"Oh,  that  would  be  insane.    It's  insane  to  fear  it." 

"No!  No!  Think  how  they'd  look,  at  their  age, 
273 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

with  you  two  held  apart.  To  women,  doing  any 
thing,  the  look  of  it,  even  to  the  million,  means — ay, 
has  to  mean — whole  chapters  it  need  not  mean  to 
men." 

"Right    Yes,  true.    I  give  it  up." 

"What  up?" 

"The  whole  argument.  Your  mind's  eye  is  mighty 
clear." 

"Hawh!  The  mind's  eye,  like  the  body's,  sees 
mostly  by  guess.  But  yours,  egad,  sees  naught. 
Else  yesterday  you'd  not  have  lugged  in  politics, 
I  guess." 

"Why,  Mr.  Murray,  it  was  she  did  that." 

"'Twas  you  let  her  do  it!" 

"I  did.  Didn't  you  just  now  imply  that  my  politics 
are  the  inmost  tangle  of  the  whole  snarl?  They  are. 
And  so,  I  let  her  lug  them  in;  I  hoped  her  father  would 
hear." 

"He  hearrd." 

"But  I  had  a  larger  reason.  My  dear  sir,  sanely  or 
madly,  as  you  please,  her  city  and  mine,  our  dear 
mother  city  and  Dixie's,  to  my  mind's  eye,  and  to  my 
heart's  fate,  has  come  to  mean  just  her,  herself,  Rosalie 
Durel.  She  even  seems  to  mean  that  I  should  see  it 
so;  that  for  our  city,  in  large  degree  or  small,  to  reject 
me  is  for  her,  its  shining  impersonation,  to  do  so;  and 
that  for  it  to  open  arms  to  me  is  the  only  chance  for 
her  arms  to  open.  She  seemed  yesterday  to  gird  her 
self  in  that  impersonation  and  to  make  it  her  last 
word,  her  ultimatum." 

274 


WITH  MURRAY  MEDDLING 

"Now,  that  is  flimsy,  laddie;  she's  shamming! 
She's  but  playing  that  old  mother-bird  trick  o'  the 
brroken  wing.  She's  but  fighting  a  rear-guard  action 
to  give  her  father  free  choice  between  intrenchment 
and  retreat." 

"  Heaven  grant  your  guess.  Yet  do  you  wonder  that 
I  tried  to  name  the  lowest  terms  on  which  I  can  meet 
that  ultimatum  and  still  keep  the  soul  I  must  keep  if 
it's  ever  to  mate  with  hers?" 

"And  so  says  you:  'The  old  Dixie  and  her  old  capital 
are  going  and  should  be  helped  to  go.'  How  tactful ! 
Haw-haw!" 

"Wasn't  it!    And  there- 

" There  I  came  tactfully  butting  hi  and  she  fled! 
But  what  would  you  have  told  her  besides?" 

Philip  sprang  up,  reddening,  and  began  to  pour  out 
words:  "I'd  have  told  her  some  things  I'm  at  last 
getting  my  Tulane  boys  to  listen  to;  that  a  true  lover 
of  his  city,  to  deserve  her  smiles,  her  arms,  must  do 
his  finest  to  help  fit  her  for  a  high  place  in  the  world — 
oh,  better — for  a  high  place  in  the  world's  service! 
And  he  can't  do  that,  sir,  by  following  political  fash 
ions.  Nor  can  he  do  it  by  echoing  the  provincial  flat 
teries  of  her  office-seekers  and  her  press.  It  can't  be 
done,  you  know,  by  keeping  her  the  mother  city  of  an 
antiquated  Dixie  out  of  step  with  the  nation  and  the 
world;  and  much  less  by  Americanizing  those  fine  old 
Creole  ways — in  manners,  in  architecture,  in  social  and 
domestic  life — which  are  just  what  ought,  instead,  to 
Creolize  her  American  crassness." 

275 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Creolize  her  American  crassness!  Bravo,  Jere 
miah!" 

"Yes,  sir,  yes.  Why,  Mr.  Murray,  to  say  no  better, 
there'd  be  more  money  in  it,  in  the  long  run,  than  in 
perpetuating  old  Creole  foibles;  yearly  packing  our 
streets  full  of  raw  sensation-hunters  swarming  to  see 
us  outdo — with  what  grotesque  vastness  and  childish 
art ! — the  follies  of  Naples,  for  instance,  instead  of  her 
beautiful  industries.  There'd  be  more  real  welfare  and 
happiness  in  it  than  in  doubling  our  population  or  our 
dollars  for  the  sake  of  mere  population  and  dollars, 
excellent  as  they  both  are." 

"You'd  say  all  that  to  mademoiselle?" 

"If  she'd  hear  me,  yes !    But  she  wouldn't." 

"She  couldn't.    You  book!" 

"She  loves  books!"  laughed  the  youth.  "Oh,  I 
don't  so  much  mind  being  like  a  book  if  the  book's  a 
live  one.  I'd  tell  her  more.  I'd  tell  her  I  want  our 
city  to  see — to  foresee — that  a  city  may  be  a  million 
big  and  yet  remain  a  village." 

"Man!  Numbers  help  mightily  to  make  a  city 
grreat." 

"Yes,  help,  but  that's  all,  and  they  help  in  vain  if 
manners  and  customs,  justice  and  equity,  arts,  crafts, 
and  learning,  civic  order,  beauty,  and  high-mindedness 
don't  play  their  full  parts.  They  are  what  make  a 
city  great  and  give  it  the  numbers  best  for  its  truest 
prosperity.  The  greatest  cities  in  history,  Jerusalem, 
Athens,  Rome,  were  never  as  populous  as  Peking. 
Neither  London  nor  Paris  owe  their  greatness  to  their 

276 


WITH  MURRAY  MEDDLING 

bigness,  and  I  dare  say  you,  a  banker,  would  rather 
lose  Manchester  and  Birmingham  than  Oxford  and 
Cambridge." 

The  challenge  went  unanswered.  "I  doubt,"  the 
Scot  smilingly  remarked,  "  if  you  could  say  with  which 
you're  the  deeper  in  love,  y'r  girrl  or  y'r  city." 

"Oh,  sir !  She  is  the  city.  They're  one,  grafted  to 
gether  in  my  heart.  She  is  my  New  Orleans,  and  New 
Orleans  is  my  city  of  Rosalie."  With  a  laugh  at  him 
self  the  lover  sank  again  to  the  sand,  staring  out  to 
sea,  his  friend  contemplating  him  with  tender  amuse 
ment.  Whatever  unreality  there  may  have  been  in 
the  source  of  his  trouble  was  more  than  offset  by  the 
depth  of  his  distress. 

"That's  all,"  he  added,  "and  it's  all  in  vain." 

A  stir  behind  drew  the  Briton's  eye.  M.  Durel 
came  softly  through  the  dry  sand. 


377 


XLIII 
LOVE  NEGOTIATES 

THE  Scot  lifted  an  admonishing  finger  to  him,  and 
he  stopped  in  the  shade  of  a  juniper  while  the  Scot 
asked  Philip: 

"And  why  is  it  all  in  vain?" 

"  Because,  I  tell  you,  what  now  holds  us  apart  isn't 
how  I  stand  to  my  city;  it's  this  ' embarrassed  grati 
tude  '  standing  like  a  spectre  betwTeen  her  and  me." 

"How  d'you  know?  Her  harking  back  to  y'r  poli 
tics  seems  to  say:  'Settle  that  and  you  settle  all."3 

"No,  it  only  veils — you  know  how  instinctively  girls 
veil  things — Creole  girls,  especially,  I  fancy — it  only 
veils  this  debt-of-gratitude  issue.  Under  that  veil  she 
bids  me  lift  this  imaginary  debt  or  forfeit  her  love 
forever.  And  there's  where  she  makes  my  plight  in 
sufferable.  While  I  thought  I  held  her  heart  I  could 
live — could  have  lived  all  my  days — in  a  superb  joy 
poured  out  into  a  hand  I  might  never  hold;  but  with 
her  love  lost,  for  me  to  go  on  holding  her  heart  in  my 
debt,  however  unreally  if  she  counts  it  real,  I  cannot 
live — I  cannot  live ! — that  way." 

"Lad,  you  need  not." 

"Ah,  yes,  Mr.  Murray,  one  thing  I've  learned; 
278 


LOVE  NEGOTIATES 

learned  it  even  in  men's  politics  and  all  the  more  in 
woman's  love — that  the  more  nearly  imaginary  a  thing 
is,  the  more  invincible  it  may  be." 

The  Scot  meditated.  "I  know.  Man,  I  know! 
I'm  the  fish  that  was  caught  once  mysel'  wi'  a  silken 
line.  Castleton,  'tis  an  ill  turn  I've  done  you,  tempt 
ing  you  to  this  island;  is  it  not?" 

"I  can't  tell  good  from  ill  at  the  crack  of  a  whip." 

The  Creole  behind  them  stirred  uneasily,  but  the 
Scot's  covert  gesture  held  him  while  Philip  added: 

"Mr.  Murray,  you  can  make  it  a  good  turn,  yet." 

"Well,  how?    Say  on." 

"  It's  hard  to  say,  sir,  but  I  say  it  for  others.  I  don't 
ask  a  grain  of  direct  share  in  its  benefits,  my  indirect 
share  will  be  big  enough." 

"What  are  you  driving  at?" 

"  I  want  you,  for  the  sake  of  her  father,  for  the  sake 
of  that  older  pair,  and,  above  all,  for  her  sake,  I  want 
you  to  lift  that  so-called  debt." 

The  Briton  moved  to  interrupt,  but  Philip  held  him 
by  the  knee  and  spoke  on:  "I  don't  forget  you're  a 
financier,  and  a  Scotch  one,  with  all  the  disdain  for 
financial  kite-flying  which,  from  your  view-point,  this 
piece  of  business  deserves 

"Yet  you  want  me  to  fly  kites  with  you." 

"No,  without  me.  I  must  be  left  out;  dropped  as 
absolutely  out  of  the  transaction,  right  now,  as  you 
saw  me  dropped  out  of  her  affections  yesterday." 

"Are  you  sure  that's  not  another  caper  of  imagina- 
tion-gone-daft  ?  " 

279 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Oh,  sir,  that  drop  was  real;  I  feel  myself  falling  yet. 
You  can't  save  me  from  that.  I  don't  ask  you  to  save 
me  from  anything.  It's  they  whom  I  want  saved — 
from  me.  I  want  you  to  make  what  I  am  still  sane 
enough — or  insane  enough — to  call  an  investment.  I 
offer  it  purely  on  its  merits,  to  the  one  single  out 
sider  who  knows  their  real  value." 

"Oh,  ay.  You  want  me  to  go  into  the  hole  I  pull 
you  out  of." 

"Precisely." 

"You'd  have  me  knock  your  irons  off  and  wear  them 
for  you,  you  guaranteeing  only  that  if " 

"If  nothing.  We  have  enough  whimsies  already. 
My  guarantee  would  make  the  whole  arrangement  a 
sham  worthless  to  all  of  us,  not  excepting  even  you.  I 
tender  it  on  its  own  chances.  I  can  do  no  more,  no 
less,  and  be  the  man  I've  got  to  be." 

"And  the  man  I'd  like  you  to  be.  But,  my  dear 
fellow,  haven't  you  had  enough  o'  my  meddling? 
Grawnting  I'm  born  with  the  gift  for  it,  I've  yet  never 
been  a  financial  meddler.  Grawnting  I'm  a  sentimen 
talist,  I've  never  been  a  financial  one.  That's  the  most 
venomous  species.  Besides  which,  I  take  no  shine,  as 
ye  say,  to  a  proposition  that  is  not  mainly  for  you 
and  her  as  one.  And  yet — I'll  tell  you."  They  rose 
together,  the  Scot  laying  an  arm  fondly  across  his 
companion's  shoulders  to  insure  against  his  looking  be 
hind:  "I — I'll — I'll  think  it  over.  Leave  me  here;  'tis 
a  good  place  for  thought — has  certain  advawntages. 
I'll  go  wi'  you  a  step  on  the  beach  for  a  sight  o'  the 

280 


LOVE  NEGOTIATES 

wrreck  and  show  you  another  way  back  o'er  the  hills, 
and  returrn  here  to  consult — my — my  best  judgment." 

"No,"  said  Philip,  gratefully  putting  off  the  arm,  "I 
want  to  be  alone  as  badly  as  you  do." 

As  the  two  moved  apart,  "Oh,  here!"  called  the 
Scot,  "you'll  be  stopping  at  the  steamer  office  to  be 
speak — yes.  Well,  I'll  take  a  room  wi'  you — or  next 
you,  if  you  prefer.  And  I'll  rejoin  you  at  the  hotel." 

When  he  got  back  to  monsieur's  juniper  he  found  no 
sign  of  him  but  his  footprints.  For  a  moment  annoyed, 
in  the  next  he  was  more  than  half  pleased  and  set  out 
to  overtake  him. 


281 


XLIV 
PRIDE  THINKS  ABOUT  IT 

"HE'LL  parley!"  thought  the  Scot,  as  he  pursued. 
"He'll  parley,  if  no  better!  Were  he  ready  to  reject 
it  he'd  have  waited  for  me !" 

Overtaken  on  the  white  highway  where  the  inn  was 
but  a  few  rods  to  the  left  and  the  hotel  a  good  mile 
around  the  harbor  to  the  right,  the  Creole  began  to 
talk  of  irrelevant  trifles.  He  extolled  the  view  near 
and  far  for  its  present  aspect  and  yet  more  for  that  of 
an  hour  earlier  when  he  had  gone  and  come  over  Salt 
Kettle  Ferry. 

"With  your  daughter?" 

No,  she  was  keeping  her  room  as  yet,  trying  to  sleep 
off  a  headache.  He  had  stolen  away — "to  rif-rezh  the 
brain  in  that  morning  air" — while  Rosalie  drowsed. 
But  he  had  been  too  long  away  and  must  hasten  back. 
He  could  not  let  the  Scot  so  "put  out  himseff "  as  to 
go  that  way  with  him — "Ah,  no!"  he  could  quite  as 
well  go  the  Scot's  way  a  piece.  They  compromised  on 
a  steady  to-and-fro  loiter  under  a  roadside  wall  and  so 
talked  on. 

"Mr.  Durel!" 

"Mr.  Murray?" 

"Gallant  chap,  that  Castleton." 

"Yes.  Ah,  yes,  gallant;  perchanz'  a  HT  too  gallant, 
with  so  many  strenge  picculiaritie'." 

282 


PRIDE  THINKS  ABOUT  IT 

Murray  laughed.  "Man,  they're  but  two  or  three, 
and  they  give  him  indiveeduality.  But  indiveedualism 
mayhap  is  something  you  don't  grreatly  prize?" 

Monsieur  shrugged.     "Not  necessa-rilly,"  he  said. 

"I  suppose  'tis  as  much  in  my  Brritish  make-up  to 
like  him  for  his  indiveedualism  as  it  is  for  you  to  be 
exawsperated  by  it." 

The  Creole  tossed  a  hand.  "For  me  'tis  worz' 
than  a  fly  in  the  face !  An'  still — "  He  shrugged 
again. 

"Now,  pawssing  that,  what  do  you  think  of  his 
proposition?  You  hearrd  it." 

Monsieur  walked  several  steps  before  he  dropped 
his  palms  and  lifted  his  shoulders  once  more.  Then 
he  said:  "I  billieve  Mr.  Murray  himseff  has  not  told, 
even  to  Mr.  Cazzleton,  w'at  himseff  he  thing  abboud 
that." 

"Because,  man,  I  must  first  know  how  far  any 
arrangement  is  going  to  shut  Castleton  out,  and  how 
far  'tis  going  to  let  him  in.  And  'tis  only  you,  Mr. 
Durel,  can  say  that." 

"No,  that  ricquire'  also  my  daughter;  her  an'  me 
together,  yes.  An'  yet,  still,  ad  the  same  time,  we 
cann'  tell  you  that  till  firz'  we  know  w'at  is  yo'  opinion. 
I'm  verrie  sorrie,  but — "  One  shrug  more. 

"Well,  I'll  say  this  much;  if  you'll  leave  it  all  to 
your  daughter- 
Monsieur's  hand  rose.  "I'm  verrie  sorrie,  but — to 
leave  that  all  to  her — she  wou'n'  allow  uz." 

The  Scot  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Lorrd !  What  next  ? 
283 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Was  ever  such  bondage  in  so  gossamer  a  web !    Come, 
let  us  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  thing !" 

Yet  one  more  shrug.     "I  thing  we  are  there." 

"Well,  tell  me  this:  Does  y'r  daughter — does  she 
care  ?  Or — or  does  she  not  ? " 

"Ah,  sir!    How  is  that  possible  for  me  to  know?" 

"Well,  suppose  I  say  that  if  you  and  she " 

"Pardon.  To  'su'pose  if— tha'z,  after  all,  only  to 
'suppose  if';  tha'z  not  to  prop-ose." 

"Well,  then,  here!  I  do  prropose — that  if  you  and 
mademoiselle — you  don't  mind  that  if?" 

"No,  tha'z  all  right;  tha'z  neces-san/." 

"If  you  and  she  will  overlook  your  sense  of  obliga 
tion  to  Castleton  and  his  grandfather " 

The  Creole  was  shaking  his  head.  "Ah,  sir,  that 
also,  tha'z  impossible." 

"  Ay,  verily !  .  .  .  Ay !  As  a  sentiment,  trrue, 
rright.  But  if  you  two  will  consent  to  regard  those 
two  as  no  longer  holding  over  you  any  constraining 
obligation  when  I've  accepted  this  proposition  and 
taken  their  place  behind  Lawndry,  egad,  I'll  do  it ! — 
and  the  four  of  you — the  six — may  stand  free." 

"Egcep'  from  yo'seff." 

"That  shall  never  gall  ye." 

"An'  if  we  cannot  consen'?" 

"Then,  man,  I  will  not  do  it.  In  short,  'tis  on  the 
lad's  behawf  I  propose  it.  True,  if  your  daughter  were 
not  all  she  is  'twould  be  differrent.  Yet  being  all  she 
is,  'tis  what  he  is  that  persuades  me,  and  that  I  would 
plead  for  your  persuasion." 

284 


PRIDE  THINKS  ABOUT  IT 

"Ad  the  same  time,  you  know,  there  is  the  pro- 
bab'lity — an'  I  thing  tha'z  now  large,  that  pro-bab'- 
lity — that  after  tha'z  all  arrange'  an'  complete7  my 
daughter  she'll  maybe  find  herseff  not  verrie  much  in 
terest  in  Mr.  Cazzleton,  with  his  so  many  picculiaritie', 
you  know  ?  I  thing,  those,  they  are  maybe  right  now 
the  cause  of  her  migraine." 

"We  leave  him  to  that  chawnce.  He'd  have  it  so. 
So  there's  your  if.  Do  you  say  yea  or  nay  ?  " 

The  reply  was  neither.  "For  me — and  for  my 
daughter  like-wise — to  see  the  authenticitie  of  that 
arrengement — that  would  be  a  verrie  diffycult.  An' 
tha'z  where  Mr.  Cazzleton  he's  right  when  he  ask'  to 
be  leave  out.  Biccause,  you  see,  if  he's  let  in,  tha'z  to 
make  you  the  same  as  juz',  eh,  juz'  his — power  of 
attorney;  an'  w'atever  that  ori-ginal  obligation  bitwin 
him  an'  me,  it  rimain  in  principle,  an'  likewise  in  the 
public  eye,  like  biffo'." 

"Lord,  Lord,  Lord!  Mr.  Durel,  no!  Surely  it 
should  suffice  that  he's  sought  to  be  left  out.  Is  not 
this  all  exclusively  between  us  four — or  six — or  eight 
or  nine,  counting  the  two  Lawndrys  and  me?  Not 
even  your  closest  circle  has  an  inkling  of  it." 

"Ah!" — the  old  shrug  and  a  pained  smile — "that 
is  a  good  maxim,  'murder  will  out,'  eh?" 

"True !  But  which  wad  be  the  rrranker  murrder, 
to  make  this  deal  or  to  brreak  up  the  game?" 

The  Creole  flinched.  " Mr.  Murray  "—he  had  begun 
to  withdraw  toward  the  inn — "I  thing  you  muz'  per 
ceive  tha'z  not  easy  to  choose.  I  will  tell  you.  Like 

285 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

you  say,  yo'seff,  to  Mr.  Cazzleton,  I  will,  eh — I'll  thing 
abboud  that." 

"Oh,  Lorrd !  Well,  please  remember  that  he  and  I 
are  booked  to  sail  day  after  to-morrow  morning." 

Monsieur's  arms  dropped  heavily.  "  Rosalie  an*  me 
the  same !  We  are  book'  sinz'  biffo'  breakfaz'." 

"The  devil!"  exclaimed  Murray. 

The  Creole  bridled.  "You  inuz'  pardon  me  if  I 
don't  un'erstan'  that  egs-<?Zam-ation — in  thiz  conneg- 
tion." 

"Forgive  it !    But  this  one  thing  you  must  do " 

"Yes  ?    Must  ?    'Ow  is  that  ?    Must  ?  " 

"  Lorrd !  Must,  nay,  perhaps,  or  what  not !  Only, 
tell  y'r  daughter  all  this  talk  before  we  meet  on  deck. 
Man,  will  you?  Or  will  you  not?" 

"Well,  eh,  ad  the  present  she's  got " 

Both  men  observed,  down  the  harbor,  a  forlorn- 
looking  inbound  steamer  flying  the  British  flag  as  she 
crept  into  view.  "She's  naught,"  said  the  Scot.  "A 
tub  in  distress.  We're  sailing  everything  these  days 
that  can  work  a  pump.  At  present  y'r  daughter,  you 
were  remarking ' 

"My  daughter — I  cann'  tell  her  those  thing'  now, 
biccause  that  migraine.  But  there  are  yet  two  days. 
I  will,  eh — I  will  thing  also  abboud  that." 


286 


XLV 
RENEGADES  REAPPEAR 

A  LETTER  from  the  judge,  delayed  by  the  island  cen 
sor,  reached  Philip's  hand  in  the  afternoon  of  that  same 
day.  That  day,  I  mean,  in  which  the  Scot  had  prom 
ised  Philip,  and  monsieur  had  later  promised  the  Scot, 
to  "  think  about "  that  private  matter  whose  need  to 
be  thought  about  eclipsed  all  news  of  intercontinental 
diplomacy  and  of  war's  nearest  and  farthest  havoc. 

This  same  might  be  said  of  a  letter  from  grand'mere 
to  Rosalie.  Each  missive  bore  its  bit  of  tidings,  worthy 
of  more  note  than  the  preoccupations  of  that  day,  or 
the  next,  or  the  next,  could  quite  make  room  for. 
Rosalie's  bit  had  its  source  in  the  western  hemisphere, 
Philip's  in  the  eastern,  as  follows: 

In  New  York  those  friends  of  Rosalie  with  whom  she 
and  grand'mere  had  gone  yachting  in  the  Gulf  the  sum 
mer  before,  who  subsequently,  in  New  Orleans,  at  the 
Smiths'  reception,  had  turned  out  to  be  cousins  of  Mrs. 
Holden,  and  who  lately  had  shown  Rosalie  pleasant  at 
tentions  during  her  search  for  a  New  York  entrance  to 
a  world  career,  had  announced  the  coming  marriage  of 
a  daughter.  Her  father,  said  grand 'mere's  letter,  had 
sent  the  college  mother  and  daughter  a  fat  check  for  all 
expenses  of  travel  and  dress  incidental  to  their  atten- 

287 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

dance  at  the  wedding.  Rosalie  was,  pensively,  glad 
for  the  Holdens'  sake. 

The  item  in  the  letter  to  Philip  was  from  Port  Said  ! 
It  had  found  its  way  under  the  Mediterranean  and  At 
lantic,  and  over  much  of  America,  to  the  judge,  in  New 
Orleans.  Bewildering !  Not  the  journey  but  the  tid 
ings.  How  difficult  to  realize,  how  impossible  to  doubt, 
and  how  strangely  it  broke  in  upon  this  heavy  state 
of  affairs  in  Bermuda — in  Louisiana.  Philip  sat  and 
thought  about  it,  stood  and  thought  about  it,  walked, 
stood  again,  sat  again  and  thought  about  it. 

"Why — why — why,  auntie,  auntie!" 

So  he  would  have  been  saying  at  intervals  still  as  he 
stood  with  his  Scotch  friend  on  a  deck  of  the  departing 
Bermuda-New  York  steamer,  painfully  aware  of  the 
Durels,  close  by,  had  not  the  attention  of  both  pairs 
been  diverted  by  the  coming  aboard,  from  a  lighter, 
of  a  dozen  or  so  men  and  women,  refugees  from  Mex 
ico.  Some  were  Latins,  some  Britons.  They  were 
bound  across  the  ocean,  but  compelled  to  leave  the 
leaking  freighter  which  had  brought  them  thus  far  and 
still  lay  moored  in  the  harbor. 

A  lighter  bearing  passengers  to  one's  own  ship  is  al 
ways  of  overwhelming  interest  even  when  no  face 
looks  up  from  it  which  one  remembers  to  have  seen 
before.  Now  the  ship  moved,  the  emptied  lighter 
dropped  away,  and  after  an  hour  or  two  the  steamer 
left  astern  the  last  intricacies  of  the  Bermudian  reefs, 
dropped  her  pilot  and  headed  for  Sandy  Hook. 

Among  the  refugees  was  one,  a  woman,  who,  at  a 
288 


RENEGADES  REAPPEAR 

single  upward  glance  as  she  came  aboard  knew  Philip 
and  would  have  been  known  by  him  if  his  eyes  had  not 
just  then  been  fixed,  as  she  noted,  on  the  Creole  girl. 
This  girl  she  early  sought  out  on  the  promenade-deck. 

Some  vestige  of  Rosalie's  headache  doubtless  bur 
dened  her  yet,  for  neither  blue  sky  nor  rainbow  sea 
could  tempt  her  from  a  reclining-chair  behind  monsieur 
and  the  Scot,  who  stood  at  the  rail  discussing  the  war 
so  interestingly  that  others  edged  up  to  hear.  One 
who  came  into  a  corner  of  Rosalie's  eye  close  by  her 
was  a  middle-aged  woman  somewhat  made  up,  some 
what  overdressed,  and,  in  spirit,  somewhat  weather- 
beaten.  On  a  witty  though  grave  reply  of  monsieur 
to  the  Scot  she  venturingly  commented,  in  undertone 
and  in  pure  French,  to  Rosalie. 

"True !"  she  said  exultantly,  "true !  Ah,  I  too  am 
for  the  Allies,  body  and  soul !  And  you  ?  " 

In  the  same  tongue  Rosalie  confessed  she  was. 

"Is  not — is  not  that  your  father;  the  one  whom  he 
in  the  Scotch  cap  just  now  called  Durel?" 

"He  is,"  Rosalie  was  proud  to  admit. 

"To  hear  him  called  that  name,  Durel — ah,  how 
it  startled  me !"  the  stranger  said. 

Rosalie  smiled.  "  Just  the  name  ?  "  she  asked.  "  And 
a  name  so  common?"  But  suddenly  another  name, 
merely  brought  to  mind,  startled  her  half  from  her 
chair. 

The  woman  met  her  gaze  with  sad  eyes  that  soon 
dropped  to  the  deck,  and  spoke  dejectedly:  "Durel  i 
my  name  also — by  marriage — to  your  cousin  Zephin 

289 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Rosalie  caught  her  breath,  but  a  passing  of  deck- 
walkers,  and  a  glance  from  her  father,  recalled  her  to 
herself  and  she  outwardly  relaxed.  "Do  you  think/' 
she  asked  aloud  in  English,  "the  Allies  will  win?" 

The  woman  sank  into  a  chair  at  her  side,  responding 
in  English:  "Whether  they  win  or  lose,  we  are  on  our 
way  to  join  them" — she  reverted  to  French — "if  only 
we  can  get  by  New  York." 

"You  mean  that  Zephire  is  here?  With  you? 
Aboard?" 

The  woman's  voice  grew  softly  intense.  "Mademoi 
selle,  yes;  and  yet,  no.  Please  do  not  speak  his  name. 
He  is  here,  but — he  is  another  man." 

Mentally  Rosalie  kept  her  poise,  but  her  frame 
trembled  to  the  knees  and  she  choked  as  she  said: 
"You  are  Madame  Philomele." 

"Again  both  yes  and  no.  I  was !"  Tears  filled  the 
clairvoyante's  eyes,  and  her  mouth  twitched  emotion 
ally.  "Mademoiselle,  we  have  been  through  purga 
tory." 

"Mexico?" 

"Yes,  but  also  worse.  Our  purgatory  was  not  a 
land  or  people  or  any  visible  condition." 

"But  at  any  rate  you  have  come  through." 

"Ah,  once  more  yes  and  no.  We  have  passed 
through,  and  through,  and  through,  yet  are  passing 
through  still.  That  is  why  we  would  go  to  the  war. 
We  go  for  mercy,  of  course,  but  we  go  also  for  penance, 
glad  thus  to  cover  some  of  our  sins."  The  tears  ran 
down.  The  weeper  owned  up  to  them  by  a  smile  of 

290 


RENEGADES  REAPPEAR 

heroic  candor  while  masking  them  from  promenaders 
by  adjustments  of  her  Spanish  veil. 

If  the  pose,  the  words,  were  not  genuine  they  were 
capital  acting,  thought  Rosalie,  ashamed  of  her  mis 
giving,  which  the  woman  seemed  to  discern. 

"Also,"  said  Philomele,  "we  need  to  prove,  even  to 
ourselves,  the  reality  of  our  repentance.  Ah,  if  you 
or  your  father  could  see  Zephire  you  would— 

"No-no-no/'  whispered  the  girl,  "my  father  cannot !" 

"You  mistake  me!"  Philomele  hurried  to  reply. 
"  Zephire  does  not  desire  it.  But,  ah,  mademoiselle,  he 
and  I  are  in  a  terribly  narrow  place." 

Rosalie  shook  her  head.  "If  you  mean  for 
money— 

"Oh,  money ! — we  have  plenty.  But  we  had  hoped 
to  go  direct  to  France.  Now  this  change  of  ships, 
taking  in  New  York,  brings  a  most  unlooked-for  peril 
not  to  us  alone,  bodily,  but  to  something  which  has 
become  to  him — as  I  know  it  is  to  you  and  your  father 
— dearer  than  bodily  safety.  You  understand?" 

"For  my  father's  sake  I  wish  it  were  the  honor  of 
his  injured  name,  the  name  of  Durel." 

"That  is  my  meaning.  And  that  makes  our  peril 
your  father's  and  yours  in  all  but  the  bodily  part,  and 
that  is  the  least  to  care  for — after  Mexico." 


291 


XLVI 
SUPPLYING  A  MISSING  LINE 

"Is  this  peril/'  murmured  Rosalie,  "the — police?" 
"Of  New  York!  We  are  in  torture  lest  you  and 
your  father  be  made  partners  in  our  shame.  At  quar 
antine  a  man  will  say : '  Sir,  despite  your  full  beard  and 
Spanish  name,  good  morning,  Zephire  Durel.'  Then 
to  your  father:  'Odd  coincidence,  sir,  that  you,  of  the 
same  name,  kin,  city,  late  of  the  same  bank,  are  here 
on  the  same  ship  at  the  same  time/  And  then 
the  newspapers — of  forty-eight  States :  '  Durel,  Durel, 
Durel !'"  Philomele  lifted  her  eyes,  sighed  musically, 
and  dropped  her  arms. 

"Oh,"  said  Rosalie,  leaving  her  seat,  "they  won't 
know  him.  I,  myself,  looking  down  into  the  lighter, 
failed  to  discover  him." 

The  clairvoyante  rose  with  her.  "Mademoiselle," 
she  said,  "is  not  a  detective." 

"True,  nor  yet  a  good  sailor.    I  must " 

The  father  interrupted.     "Ah,  daughter,  going  in?" 
"Yes,  papa,  or,  rather,  no;  I  will  try  a  few  steps  up 
and  down,  just  yonder,  in  your  view." 

Both  men  scanned  the  girl's  companion,  whom  they 
had  never  before  seen;  but  her  make-up  seemed  merely 
Spanish-American.  Her  smile,  overbright  from  over 
use,  disarmed  them  and  they  resumed  their  converse. 

292 


SUPPLYING  A  MISSING  LINE 

The  two  women  chose  a  short  beat  round  and  round 
the  stern  of  the  ship,  appearing  and  reappearing  to  the 
watchful  parent,  who  at  each  return  glimpsed  them  over 
the  Scot's  shoulder,  and  by  and  by  over  Philip's,  when 
he  came  and  joined  the  debate. 

"Dear  mademoiselle!"  the  clairvoyante  pleaded  on, 
"my  terror  for  Zephire,  and  his  and  mine  for  you  and 
your  father — and  for  the  Durel  name — is  that  detec 
tives  will  not  have  to  detect !  A  certain  passenger  will 
know  him  and  point  him  out  to  them  I" 

Whom  she  meant  was  clear.  At  every  emergence 
into  view  of  the  three  debaters  she  turned  short  to 
avoid  the  risk  of  a  backward  glance  from  Philip.  But 
Rosalie  was  careful  to  generalize.  "  Oh,  how  could  any 
man  do  such  a  thing  to  any  man  ?"  she  softly  cried. 

"Mademoiselle,  there  are  few  who,  so  placed,  could 
refrain.  He  knows  nothing  of  Zepnire's  marriage  or 
changed  life,  but  regards  him  only  as — pardon ! — a 
rival  in  love,  a  mortal  foe,  a  fugitive  from — what  they 
call — justice." 

Rosalie  hesitated,  put  to  her  best  to  choose  what  to 
say  that  should  be  neither  too  much  nor  too  little  for 
the  concealment  of  her  own  heart.  Then : 

"How  do  you  know  detectives  will  be  there?" 

"Ah,  nowadays  they  are  everywhere.  If  Mr.  Cas- 
tleton" — the  name  was  spoken  with  a  touch  of  esteem; 
to  advance  Philip's  cause  was  part  of  the  woman's 
strategy — "if  he  spies  Zephire  he  knows  as  well  as  we 
that  just  here  on  board  is  the  'wireless."3 

"Oh,  you  can  keep  Zephire  out  of  sight." 
293 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Philomele  shook  her  head.  "Those  same  eyes  I 
would  hide  him  from" — again  the  tone  of  esteem — 
"would  recognize  me.  They  saw  me  once;  that  is 
enough. " 

"But  I  can  hide  you." 

"Angel !    Nay,  those  eyes — you  know  them " 

"Only  as  good,  normal  eyes." 

"Ah,  you  know  better!  Those  eyes  will  count  us 
thirteen  refugees — again,  as  I  saw  them  do  when  we 
were  on  the  lighter."  [A  falsehood.]  "So  counting, 
they  will  say  'two  missing !'  and  will  know  at  once." 

"And  then?" 

"Then  the  'wireless/    New  York  will  do  the  rest." 

"Unbelievable!"  laughed  Rosalie.  "He  couldn't 
stoop  to  such  an  act.  If  he  could,  madame,  certain 
things  never  would  have  happened  as  they  have.  I 
am  free  to  praise  him.  He  is  no  longer  in  my  train." 

Philomele  winced  with  chagrin.  Whether  she  was 
truly  married  or  only  hoping  to  be  so,  she  believed  this 
girl  to  be  still  the  main  obstacle  between  her  and  her 
quite  unregenerate  Zephire.  "Ah,"  she  said,  "what  a 
heaven  you  have  thrown  away !" 

"Say,  rather,  lost,  madame." 

"Ah,  never,  never !  Tell  me  the  truth.  Most  of  it 
I  know  already,  but  this  amazes  me,  clairvoyante 
though  I  am.  Tell  me !  Who  knows  but  I  can  help 
you — or  him — to  whom  I  owe  so  much?" 

"You?"  came  the  overprompt  challenge.  "To 
him?" 

"Aha!"  thought  Philomele,  but  replied  artlessly: 
294 


SUPPLYING  A  MISSING  LINE 

"  It  was  through  him  I  got  my  Bibi !    My  Zephire  ! " 

The  note  of  love  triumphant  wrung  Rosalie's  heart. 
So  Philomele  designed.  "I'll  make  you  hunger  for 
him,"  she  said  in  her  mind,  "lest  you  yet  make  me 
hunger  for  Zephire." 

Rosalie's  response  was  quiet.  "How  can  you  help 
me,  when  I  cannot  believe  in  the  smallest  part  of  all 
your  spells,  incantations,  charms,  hand-reading,  card- 
reading " 

"Never  mind  them.  Believe  only  that  the  unravel 
ling  of  countless  love  troubles  has  made  me  wise.  Tell 
me  the  story,  what  little  I  do  not  know." 

It  was  soon  told,  to  the  end,  to  the  deadlock,  and  in 
silence  the  pair  walked  on  to  and  fro.  Then,  venturing 
a  smile,  the  woman  spoke:  "Could  a  love  tangle  be 
more  typically  Creole !" 

But  she  was  quickly  grave  again  as  Rosalie  retorted : 
"It  is  not  merely  a  love  tangle." 

"My  faith!  It  is  a" — Philomele  made  eyes  as  big 
as  the  words — "a  Gordian  knot!" 

"And  of  how  many,  many  cords!"  insisted  the  girl. 

"So  many,"  said  the  other,  "that  it  must,  must,  must 
be  cut !  Yet  who  shall  cut  it  ?  " 

"Not  my  papa !    And  assuredly  not  I !" 

"Assuredly  not !"  said  the  woman,  while  she  thought, 
"We'll  see.  We'll  see."  "Mademoiselle,"  she  added, 
"there  is  a  line  missing  from  your  story." 

"Which  you  can  supply?" 

"Yes,  this:  To  one  good,  fair  person " 

"  One  ?  Good  ?  Fair  ? ' '  Rosalie  felt  an  acute  alarm. 
295 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Yes,  mademoiselle.  To  her  this  deadlock  offers  a 
chance  of  happiness;  a  chance  so — well, — so  plausible 
— that  her  heart  has  fed  on  it " 

"  Her  heart  ?    I  did  not  quite 

"  Her  poor  heart  has  lived  on  it  nearly  a  year." 

"Who — how  have  you  learned  of  that?" 

"I  can  only  say,  not  by  clairvoyance." 

Rosalie  laughed.  "Well,  if  that  should  be  happiness 
for  him  also,  I  too  should  be  pleased.  But  who  is  that 
one  so  good  and  fair  ?  Is  she  also  rich  ?  " 

"No,  poor.    She  is  Miss  Emily  Holden." 

"My  faith!"  Rosalie  whispered.  "Does  she  think 
he  is  rich,  or  is  she  too  deep  in-  -eh ?  " 

"As  deep  as  the  sea  under  us  right  here." 

"Ha-ha!    And  he  with  her ?" 

The  woman  shook  her  head  in  solemn  negative. 

"Oh,  then  !— ha,  ha !— in  that  case " 

"Mademoiselle,  remember !  When  one  of  our  sex — 
good,  fair,  demure — is  as  deep  in  as  that,  and  the  man 
is  the  right  man,  in  the  end,  unless  a  rival  plays  the 
game  better  than  she,  she  will  trap  him;  she  cannot 
help  but  be  a  trap;  'tis  her  human  right.  But  how  far 
we  wander  from  our  subject,  while  this  danger  to  Ze- 
phire  grows  with  every  tick  of  the  clock,  and  you,  you 
alone,  can  save  us!" 

"You  mean  I  can — can  intercede?" 

"  Ah,  if  you  would  !  If  you  will !  I  know  you  would 
rather  he  were  any  one  else  alive;  but  oh,  for  sweet 
mercy — and  your  father — and  the  Durel  name — if  you 
will! — and  at  once!" 

296 


SUPPLYING  A  MISSING  LINE 

They  passed  beyond  their  beat  and  stood  by  the  rail, 
with  Rosalie  in  sight  of  any  of  the  three  men  if  any 
chose  to  glance  their  way.  Said  the  woman  tenderly, 
in  English:  "You  have  a  headache." 

"'Twill  pass.    I  suppose  'tis  the  ship's  motion." 
"And  you  will  do  us,  all,  that  great  mercy?" 
"Leave  me  here,"  murmured  the  girl.     "I  will — I 
will  think  about  that.    Quick,  he's  coming." 


297 


XLVII 
"COME  BACK,"  SAYS  SHE 

MADEMOISELLE  lingered  at  the  rail  alone. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  boat  porpoises  were  playing 
and  passengers  were  crowding  the  rails  of  two  decks  to 
see  them,  but  she  had  often  seen  porpoises,  and  pas 
sengers. 

In  full  sight  of  her  father  she  could  afford  to  loiter 
thus  apart,  although  to  do  so  was  a  palpable  challenge 
to  Philip.  So  be  it !  He  should  have  this  chance  to 
set  matters  straight  if  they  could  be  set  straight. 
And  here  he  came. 

He  had  left  her  father  and  the  Scot  debating  and 
was  half-way  to  her.  He  had  given  himself  an  idle  air 
and  sauntering  gait,  but  they  proved  unlucky.  Mod 
estly  a  small,  refined-looking  male  stranger  escorting  a 
wife  and  daughter,  large  golden  blondes,  halted  him. 

"Ciel!"  thought  Rosalie,  "if  passengers  would 
only 1" 

But  to  have  a  large  blonde  daughter  on  one's  hands 
is  a  desperate  situation,  and  out  of  a  chronic  despair 
the  father  and  mother  clutched  at  this  auspicious 
straw.  With  bashful  fervor  the  matron  begged  leave 
to  ask  a  question  or  two  about  New  Orleans,  whose 
next  Carnival  they  had  hoped  to  see.  How  great  was 
the  danger  of  New  Orleans  being  swept  away  if  its 

298 


"COME  BACK,"  SAYS  SHE 

"lev-ee"  should  break  while  the  Mississippi  was  high? 
And  how  do  you  pronounce  T-c-h-o-u-p-i-t-o-u-l-a-s 
Street  ?  And  were  they  detaining  him  ?  And  (this  by 
the  husband,  in  very  full  voice)  what  was  a  Creole, 
anyhow?  And — pardon! — wouldn't  Philip  sit  down 
with  them? 

When  he  gratefully  declined,  the  mother  told,  to  him 
and  her  daughter  as  one,  an  ancient  tale  of  Creoles, 
from  some  magazine,  she  wasn't  sure  which,  by  an 
author  whose  name  she  hadn't  noticed.  She  cared  lit 
tle  who  wrote  a  thing  if  it  was  only  interesting !  Just 
there  Rosalie  went  by,  granting  Philip  a  bow  and  smile 
of  transcendent  sweetness,  which  yet  cast  a  hint  of 
arraignment  that  both  flattered  and  stung.  She  paused 
a  moment  between  her  father  and  Murray,  exchanged 
pleasantries,  and  went  on  to  her  room.  The  Scot 
turned  again  to  Mr.  Durel : 

"Evidently  you've  talked  it  over  with  her." 
"With  her,  no.    To  her,  yes.     She  won't  talk." 
"How  d'you  interrpret  that?" 
"That  I  interpret — that  so  sure  as  our  negotiation' 
let  Cazzleton  in  she'll  leave  him  out.    Even  if  she  don't 
want  she's  goin'  to  feel  compel' !" 

"And  if  we  leave  him  out  will't  be  vice  versa?" 
"No-o,  my  dear  sir  !    Vice  versa,  no-o  !" 
The  bugle  rang  for  lunch.     No  Rosalie.     But  at  din 
ner  she  reappeared,  beautifully  dressed  and,  though 
pensive,  most  fair  to  look  on.     She  sat  next  her  father, 
facing  Murray.     At  Murray's  elbow  Philip  faced  her 
father.     Next  beyond  Philip  was  the  blonde  girl,  with 

299 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

her  small  father  beyond  her,  and  her  large  mother  op 
posite,  close  to  monsieur.  The  matron  began  the  con 
versation  by  a  word  to  Philip  which  gave  Rosalie  a 
grain  of  comfort: 

"We  haven't  seen  you  since  you  left  us  at  lunch — 
except  at  a  distance,  seeming  to  be  looking  for  some 
thing  you'd  lost?"  She  twinkled. 

"I  must  have  caught  the  look  from  those  refugees." 
"You  have  been  with  them?"  Rosalie  asked  him. 
"Yes,  for  a  moment,  once  or  twice." 
"How  many  of  them  have  you  counted  ?" 
"Why,  I" — what  an  odd  question! — "it  hasn't  oc 
curred  to  me  to  count  them,"  he  said,  and  for  the  first 
time  the  thought  struck  him — Zephire ! 

She  saw  it  strike,  saw  it  widen  through  his  mind  as 
his  glance  lingered  on  her  inquiringly.  She  answered 
with  a  smile.  The  Scot  saw  the  smile.  The  blonde 
girl  saw  it.  Both  saw  that  it  had  little  to  do  with 
refugees  and  that  Rosalie  cared  as  little  who  saw,  if 
Philip  but  understood.  "Come  back,"  said  the  smile, 
and  waned;  waned  only  that  he  might  grasp  its  reach 
and  limitations,  then  came  again  and  said  once  more, 
"Come  back." 

When  the  repast  was  over  and  the  seven  mounted  a 
stair  he  and  she  came  side  by  side  and  Philip,  with  his 
aunt  in  mind,  remarked:  "I've  been  wanting,  for  some 
time,  to  tell  you  a  strange  bit  of  news." 

"Zephire!"  she  thought  to  herself.  "Some  time," 
she  smilingly  repeated,  "but  by  what  measure?  Min 
utes,  hours,  days,  weeks ?" 

300 


"•COME  BACK/'  SAYS  SHE 

"Centuries,"  Philip  said,  on  the  lover's  key  before 
he  knew  it.  But  she  answered  lightly: 

"Ah,  news  so  old  must  be  indeed  strange." 

"I  fancy  you'll  call  it  so.  I'd  like" — the  tone  soft 
ened — "to  tell  you  alone,  out  on  deck." 

She  replied  as  softly:  "Not  now.  But  by  and  by,  if 
you  should  want  to  promenade 

He  flashed  assent,  and  as  he  left  her,  "Come  back/' 
said  her  smile  a  third  time. 

To  frown  down  a  sturdy  elation  while  he  smoked  with 
the  other  three  men  taxed  his  best  powers,  and  the  tax 
was  doubled  when  on  his  return  she,  still  with  the 
blondes,  accepted  his  invitation  before  it  was  half 
uttered,  and  started  with  him  around  the  deck,  alone. 


301 


XLVIII 
"I  COME,"  SAYS  HE 

THEY  made  the  circuit  but  once.  Those  who  walked 
for  wager  or  digestion  overtook  them  so  often  that 
they  dropped  out  of  the  running  and  stood  by  the  rail, 
quite  to  themselves,  while  their  hearts  beat  faster  than 
any  tread  on  the  deck,  and  while,  in  distant  view,  the 
three  older  men  and  the  two  blondes  placidly  criticised 
the  world  and  its  war  from  their  steamer-chairs. 

Soon  Rosalie's  tone  altered.  "Your  very  strange 
news,  what  is  it  about  ?  Can  I  guess  ? " 

"Try !    I'd  like  to  make  all  I  can  of  it." 

"'Tis  about  people?" 

"Yes,  especially  about  two." 

"And  I  know  them?" 

"You  know  one." 

"Zephire,"  she  thought  again. 

"You  never  saw  the  other,"  he  added. 

"Philomele,"  she  thought,  and  said:  "I  know!  A 
couple  just  very  lately  married." 

"Yes,  or  presently  to  be  married." 

"And  already  on  their  way  to  other  lands  for  works 
of  mercy,  of  healing?" 

"Yes,  of  mercy,  of  healing.    You  guess  well." 

"The  likeness  is  so  plain !  But  you — you  are  willing 
to  let  them  go?" 

302 


"I  COME/'   SAYS  HE 

"Why,  I  mustn't  be  too  strenuously  unwilling." 
"Then  you'll  not  attempt  to  stop  them?"    The 
query,  unless  a  mere  pleasantry,  was  almost  a  request. 
"Them?"  asked  Philip.     "I?    Stop  them?"    He 
glanced   drolly    about   him.     "Why,    how   should    I 
begin?" 

"  I  don't  know.    By  wireless  ?    To  New  York  ?  " 
"Why,  how  comical !    I  can't  imagine  it." 
"Mr.  Castle  ton,  promise  me  you'll  not  do  it." 
"Promise    you?"    The    lover    stood    bewildered. 
Then  abruptly  he  said:  "Mademoiselle" — once  more  it 
thrilled  them  both  for  him  to  call  her  that — "after  all, 
you're  guessing  wrong !     Wrong  thing,  wrong  persons, 
wrong  side  of  the  world  !" 

"No,  I'm  guessing  right.    Are  they  not  on  a  ship  ?" 
"As  well  as  I  know,  yes." 
"Ah,  well  as  you  know  !    Is  it  not  this  ship  ? " 
"Mercy,  no !    They're  half  round  the  globe  from  us. 
It's  auntie  I'm  speaking  of!     She's  about  to  be — by 
now  is — married ! — to  a  missionary  physician — in  the 
party  she  sailed  with.     Auntie!    Can  you  grasp  it?" 
"Assuredly  I  never  could  have  guessed  that." 
"  And  marrying  for  love  !    Writes  us  that  love  is  not 
solely,  or  even  chiefly,  for  the  young." 

"She  is  right.  It  is  not.  I  don't  know  if  it  is  for 
the  young  at  all;  they  make  such  terrible  mistakes. 
'Tis  better  to  wait  till  one  is  old.  Yes,  love  is  for  the 
old,  and  I  find  the  cruellest  thing  in  the  world  is  for 
the  old  to  be  disappointed  in  love !  Well,  my  guess 
was  wrong.  Now  you,  guess  what  my  guess  was." 

303 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Mademoiselle,  you've  all  but  told  me.  You 
guessed  that  I  knew  that  Zephire  Durel  and  Philomele 
were  on  this  boat.  Now  I  do  know.  Do  I  not  ?" 

Rosalie  sighed.  "You  would  have  found  it  out. 
'Twas  best  to  tell  you,  in  time  to  make  you  that  re 
quest — which  you  have  not  yet " 

"Granted?    No.    I  want  it  withdrawn." 

"With'— ah!    Ah-h!    And  why  so,  withdrawn?" 

"  Because  I  will  not  believe  that  you,  you,  could  even 
dream  of  me  as  a  public  informer  on  a  private  enemy." 

So  had  she  herself  spurned  the  imputation,  for  him, 
to  Philomele.  Now,  though  with  eyelids  dropped,  she 
said:  "Only  one  thing  could  give  me  so  bad  a  dream." 

"And  that  one  thing  is " 

"Your  manner  of  thought — about  public  duty.    I 
saw  that  when  you  was  on  grand  jury.     Tis  a  very 
unique  manner,  you  know?" 
-    "Pardon,  no,  I  do  not.     But  go  on,  please." 

"  You  might  not  choose,  yet  still  you  might  feel  duty 
bound  not  to  let  any  private  relation  stop  you  from 
giving  up  a  lawbreaker  to  the  law." 

"True!  I  might  feel — I  did  once,  you  know — that 
no  private  affection  or  antipathy  should  stop  me.  But 
I  might  feel  it  again,  yet  not  lift  a  finger.  Thank 
heaven,  no  more  under  this  British  flag  than  under  our 
stars  and  stripes,  is  any  private  citizen,  as  such,  in 
duty  bound  to  do,  unasked,  anything  below  the  dig 
nity  of  a  private  gentleman.  Now,  is  there  anything 
unique  in  that?" 

"Ah,  no.    No" — a  sidewise  archness — "that's  only 
304 


"I  COME/'  SAYS  HE 

unique  to  come  from  you;  it  sounds  so  much  like  other 
men,  even  like  papa.    But,  anyhow,  this  morning,  you 
saw  that  woman,  walking  with  me?" 
"Yes,  I  recognize  now  who  she  was." 

"And  she  may  tell  Zephire  you'll  not  lift ?" 

"She  may.  Do  I  understand  they're  going  to  the 
fighting-line,  in  France?" 

"Yes,  he's  reformed,  Mr.  Castleton.    Both  have  re 
pented  everything!    That's  pretty  good,  eh?" 
"Truly  good,  if  they  can  make  it  good." 
"And  you  don't  expect  that?" 
"Oh,  if  to  expect  were  as  easy  as  to  wish !" 
"Or,"  chimed  Rosalie,  "if  to  reform  as  easy  as  to 
expect !    Papa  says  to  reform  is  not  just  to  cross  the 
street,  'tis  a  long  climb  up-hill." 

Philip  was  gladdened.  "That's  my  notion.  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  find  my  other  notions  so  strange." 

"Ah,  if  that  was  only  I  who  find  them  so,  or  papa 
and  I.  But  that's  everybody.  Yonder  in  New  Or 
leans  they  call  you,  even — shall  I  tell  you? — un' " 

"I  know;  unnatural.  As  they  mean  it  I  am  so. 
Mademoiselle,  can't  we  walk  now,  and  talk — differ 
ently?" 


305 


XLIX 
CASHIER  AND  CLAIRVOYANTS 

PROMENADERS  for  speed  and  health  were  all  gone  in, 
and  these  two  could  saunter  without  being  jostled. 
They  chose  their  beat  around  the  after  half  of  the  ship. 

"Mademoiselle/'  Philip  resumed,  "we  hear  of  heart- 
to-heart  discussions." 

"Yes,"  was  the  eager  reply,  "and  still  we  can  have 
a  mind-to-mind  one." 

"Can't  we  have  both  in  one?"  asked  Philip,  but  got 
no  response.  A  light  seemed  to  be  blown  out;  he  began 
to  feel  his  way.  "Now,  what  do  you  fancy  they  mean 
by  'unnatural'  ?  If  they  mean  that  my  social  theories 
are  not  controlled  by  my  natural  affections,  for  exam 
ple,  they're  right;  they're  not  so  controlled." 

"No!"  said  the  girl,  with  secret  bitterness.  "I  be 
lieve  you!  Now,  explain  me  that."  In  fact,  she 
wanted  no  explanation;  the  request  was  only,  so  to 
speak,  her  heart's  wire  entanglements,  which  Philip,  as 
weary  of  this  attack  as  he  was  hungry  for  another, 
would  gladly  have  found  a  way  round  but  was  blind 
enough  to  see  none. 

"Why,  we,  you  and  I  and  all  civilized  society,  are 
extra-natural,  aren't  we?  Our  natural  affections,  not 
excepting  even  love,  the  love  of  lovers,  are  a  highly 

306 


CASHIER  AND  CLAIRVOYANTE 

artificial  product,  and  the  artificial  of  to-day  becomes 
the  natural  of  to-morrow.    To  my  mind  that's  the 
highest  meaning  of  progress." 
"Yes,  I  think  so!    Goon!" 
"Oh,  please,  no !    I've  something  better  to  say !" 
"Not  yet;  by  and  by;  first  explain  me  that.    I'm 
absorbed !    You  ought  to  publish  it.    You  could  make 
that  into  a  beautiful  romance!" 

The  lover  all  but  writhed.  Was  this  what  he  had 
been  smiled  back  for?  He  got  out  something  to  the 
effect  that  wherever  there  was  such  progress  there 
would  be  those  to  whom  it  must  seem  unnatural. 
"Ah,  I  see !  In  Dixie  we  are  too  natural." 
"Don't  make  me  say  that.  In  Dixie  we  are  merely 
not  extra-natural  enough.  We  cling  too  fondly  to  last 
century's  edition  of  our  nature;  clinging  to  it  by  our 
affections  when  we  can  no  longer  hang  on  by  our  rea 
sons.  Isn't  that  partly  what  makes  us  Southerners  so 
welcome  in  the  most  modern  social  circles?  We're 
antiques." 

"Mr.  Castle  ton,  you  are  satirical  on  our  poor  Dixie." 
"No,  I  love  her  too  well  to  be  that." 
"You've  studied  that  question  pretty  hard." 
"I've  fought,  in  my  mind,  a  war,  for  its  true  answer." 
"They  are  very  harsh,  those  battles  in  the  mind." 
"My  battles  haven't  been  all  in  the  mind.    I  still 
have  a  right  to  say  that  much — of  the  past.    I  loved. 
You  know  that.    And  my  love  demanded  of  me  that 
true  answer,  as  if  with  a  deadly  weapon  at  my  head, 
my  heart;  head  and  heart  by  turns." 

307 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"But  now  you  find  that  all  of  the  past!"  The 
secret  bitterness  was  back  again. 

"Don't  tempt  me!  It's  of  the  past  only  by  com 
pact." 

"Such  love  of  country  you  had  ! — and  of  city  !" 
"Had  ?    I  hadn't  half  what  I  have  now.    Mademoi 
selle,  how  many  things  in  this  world  grow  by  conflict !" 
"  Y' — yes,  by — by  conflict.   That's  true,  very  many." 
"And  none  more  than  love.    Do  you  know  that?" 
"Yes,  I  have  learn' — I  have  observed  that." 
"Well,  I  want  you  to  know  too — I  wish  your  father 
also  might  know — with  how  much  better  a  love  I  love 
my  New  Orleans — my  Dixie — my  America — since  that 
conflict  within  me  which  has  sentenced  to  prison  for 
life  the  one  love  I  must  not  tell.    I've  a  right  to  say 
that  much,  this  once  for  all;  the  right  of  the  condemned 
if  no  other.    Have  I  not?"    His  last  allowable  word 
was  said.    He  waited. 

As  the  two  stood  face  to  face  in  the  starlight,  speak 
ing  in  slow  restraint,  Rosalie's  thought  ran  fast,  deep, 
close  to  his.  With  an  assayer's  nicety,  though  with 
inward  trembling,  she  weighed  each  word,  each  accent, 
of  his  lips  as  well  as  of  her  own. 

"Once  for  all?"  she  repeated  after  him.  "Ah,  yes. 
Yes,  I  suppose."  But  meanwhile  her  silent  thought 
demanded:  "Why  this  parade  of  the  'one  love  he  must 
not  tell'?  Was  there  another  love,  love  of  another, 
which  by  and  by,  elsewhere,  he  might  tell  ?  And  why 
this  'once  for  all'  and  this  'right  of  the  condemned'? 
Were  they  designed  to  smother  down  the  Scot's  wait- 

308 


CASHIER  AND  CLAIRVOYANTE 

ing  proposition  and  to  add  her  dismissal  of  him,  Philip, 
to  his  own.  renunciation  of  her?  If  so,  with  what  in 
view  ?  With  whom  in  view  ?  That  one  so  '  good  and 
fair'  of  whom  the  clairvoyante  had  spoken  and  whom 
she  now  thought  she  remembered  as  having  been  the 
whole  past  year  a  hovering  possibility  ?" 

Abruptly,  half  laughing,  she  sighed:  "Mr.  Castle  ton, 
you  know?  you  are  very  confusing." 

"What,  I?    Now?    Here?" 

"Yes.  Yes.  Yes.  You  tell  me  you  have  some 
thing  you  can't  tell.  Well,  then,  even  once  for  all, 
you  can't  tell  it.  But  I,  I  can't  tell  if  that's  so  or  no. 
If  I  could  know  what  that  is,  I  could  know  if  you  can 
tell  it  or  no.  But,  that  way  it  is,  whether  you  can  tell 
it  or  whether  you  can't,  I  can't  tell;  that's  exclusively 
for  you  to  conclude.  Well,  that's  pretty  con' — confus 
ing,  is  it  not  ?  " 

Her  own  words  gave  her  a  panic.  She  had  over 
stepped  !  If,  in  the  face  of  this  palpable  lure,  the  lover 
— who  was  even  now  replying — should  still  keep  the 
silence  he  had  pledged,  she  was  forever  shamed.  Con 
trariwise,  if — as  every  word  now  coming  from  him 
threatened — he  should  so  forget  himself  as  to  crash 
through  his  pledge  with  a  new  avowal  of  his  passion, 
new  proffer  of  his  suit,  there  was  no  refuge  for  her 
feminine  self-regard  but  to  put  him  off,  though  to  put 
him  off  now — since  that  hour  with  the  clairvoyante— 
was  the  farthest  thing  from  her  choice.  Oh,  for  some 
petty,  saving  interruption!  None  came.  Philip  was 
saying: 

309 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Mademoiselle,  it's  far  worse  than  confusing.  It's 
suffocation.  I  am  trying,  have  been  for  days — I  be 
lieve  we  are  all  trying — to  breathe  and  live  and  be  our 
selves — in  a  vacuum.  Is  that  clear  ?  Not  even  that  ? 
Then — then — do  you  ask  me — do  you  give  me  leave — 
to  explain?" 

The  girl's  heart  leapt,  but  her  head  shook  gravely 
while  she  replied:  "No.  No,  I  think  that's  something 
I  can't  ask,  neither  give  leave.  I  am  sure  that's  for 
you  to  conclude." 

"  It  is  ?  You  say  so  ?  Then  without  any  one's  ask 
ing  or  any  one's  leave,  I'll  do  it."  But  just  then  the 
saving  interruption  came  and  she  used  it,  murmuring: 

"Wait — a  moment — till  those  are  gone." 

Quietly,  together,  Zephire  and  Philomele  stepped  by. 
As  they  passed  Philomele  dropped  a  soft  good  evening 
to  Rosalie.  Philip  looked  after  them  as  they  drew 
near  M.  Durel  and  the  Scot.  Close  in  front  of  those 
two,  with  evident  reluctance  on  Philomele's  part,  they 
stopped  and  addressed  Murray.  The  air  behind  the 
ex-cashier  bore  a  taint  of  drink.  Philip  and  Rosalie 
watched  them  a  second  or  two  and  then  followed.  As 
they  reached  the  four  Zephire  was  asking,  while  mon 
sieur  ignored  his  outstretched  hand: 

"You  don't  reco'nize  me,  cousin  Alphonse?  You 
have  forgot'  your  rillation?" 

Monsieur  solemnly  shook  his  head.  "Mmm-no,"  he 
said  with  an  evenness  of  tone  that  thrilled  every  ear. 
'*  'Tis  you  are  forgetting.  I  am  not  yo'  cousin.  I  am 
not  even  acquaint'  with  any  man  of  yo'  description." 

310 


CASHIER  AND  CLAIRVOYANTE 

Philomele,  pulling  at  her  companion's  arm  with  a 
firm  but  vain  increase  of  weight,  cast  Rosalie  a  be 
seeching  glance.  Philip  stepped  forward.  Zephire  shot 
him  one  ferocious  gleam  and  returned  his  eyes  to  mon 
sieur's.  The  Scot  dropped  his  hands  into  his  pocket 
and  leaned  on  the  rail,  ankles  crossed. 

"Papa,"  called  the  daughter,  "that's  not  the  old 
Zephire,  that's  the  new,  repenting  all  his  past  life." 

"Yes,  I  perceive,  by  the  odor."  The  speaker's  look 
remained  on  the  culprit,  and  as  the  latter  rallied  to 
speak  again,  monsieur  drew  back  a  step  and  with  a 
palm  upraised  said  as  quietly  as  ever:  "No.  Go  away. 
On  the  instant.  And  if  you  come  back  near  me  aggain 
on  this  ship,  I  give  you  my  word  as  a  gen'leman,  I'll 
throw  you  into  the  sea." 

Philomele  drew  hard  on  the  intruder's  arm.  Philip 
touched  his  shoulder.  Zephire  glared  in  his  face.  Had 
that  face  betrayed  one  ray  of  kindness  he  would  have 
spurned  the  touch;  but  when  without  such  betrayal 
Philip  said:  "Let  me  walk  a  few  steps  with  you,"  the 
three  went  away  together. 

Murray  was  leaning  against  the  rail  as  before  when 
Philip  returned,  asking:  "Where  are  the  Durels?" 

"The  Durels,"  replied  the  Scot,  "have,  as  you  say, 
retired." 


311 


L 

NO  FAULT  O'  THE  SCOT 

DAYBREAK  found  the  ship  rolling  over  a  wild  sea,  in 
a  cold  rain  and  a  whistling  tempest. 

At  breakfast,  at  lunch,  all  day,  all  the  evening,  Ro 
salie,  most  unwillingly,  and  with  an  impulse  to  scream 
sticking  ever  in  her  throat,  remained  unseen.  Only 
men  were  on  deck.  The  Scot  played  chess  with  mon 
sieur,  read  war  pamphlets,  had  a  lengthy  rubber  at 
pinochle  with  Philip,  chatted  with  the  blondes,  watched 
Philip  play  chess  with  monsieur,  played  Philip  at 
chess  and  agah.  at  pinochle,  declined  a  game  with 
Zephire,  and  watched  Zephire  and  Philip  at  chess, 
where  Zephire  showed  himself  much  the  better  man. 
After  dinner  he  and  Philip  wrote  letters  of  courtesy 
back  to  Bermuda.  Next  morning  the  boat  steamed 
up  New  York  harbor  in  a  rude,  windy  sunlight,  with 
every  one  on  de«  ,  Rosalie  between  the  blondes,  Ze 
phire  and  Philomele  keeping  a  modest  distance,  and 
every  one  saying  ^ood-by  to  every  one  at  every  chance 
encounter. 

From  the  dock  i  le  Durels  went  to  one  hotel,  Murray 
and  Philip  to  ano  her;  but  the  four  were  pledged  to 
meet  again  at  luncheon,  which  the  Scot  insisted,  in 
view  of  his  bidding  America  farewell  next  day,  should 
be  "on  him."  When  they  regathered  they  found  the 

312 


NO  FAULT  0'  THE  SCOT 

table  set  for  six,  and  while  he  explained  that  Philip 
and  he  had  stumbled  upon  the  extra  two  in  Broadway 
buying  their  tickets  for  New  Orleans,  the  two  appeared. 
They  were,  as  Rosalie  had  instantly  suspected,  Mrs. 
Holden  and  her  daughter,  returning  from  that  wedding 
in  the  railway  president's  family. 

As  the  six  sat  down  Rosalie  asked  the  mother: 

"  By  what  train  have  you  your  tickets  ?  " 

Both  mother  and  daughter  named  it. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  think  that's  the  be^t  route,  best 
train.  'Tis  by  that  we  are  going  likewise." 

"Well !"  her  father  commented,  "I'm  glad  you've  at 
laz'  make  up  yo'  mind." 

"Ah,  papa,  on  the  contrary,  from  the  begin 
ning " 

"But  we  don't  know  if  now  there  is  any  space." 

" There  is,"  said  the  surprising  Murray.  "I've  made 
free  to  bespeak  it."  Both  Durels  thanked  him. 

"And  you?"  inquired  Rosalie  of  Philip,  "not  start 
ing  till  to-morrow?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Philip  replied,  "I  go  on,that  same  train." 
And  the  Scot  added  for  him: 

"Bought  his  ticket  on  his  way  to  the  hotel." 

"Oh!  ...  Yes?"  She  smiled  across  to  the  other 
girl,  saying,  "What  a  remarkable  promptitude !"  while 
"  Collusion  !  Collusion ! "  whispere^  t  her  heart. 

With  less  sparkle  the  other  smil^l  back  and — a  bit 
too  hurriedly — asked  about  sea-weather  and  ships, 
islands  and  ocean  gardens.  Rosalie  and  Philip  re* 
sponded  by  turns,  as  if  somehow  jointly  answerable. 

313 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"But  there  will  be  two  whole  days  on  the  train  to 
tell  that/'  said  Rosalie  and  began  to  inquire  about  the 
wedding:  "Was  it  very,  very  pretty?"  etc. 

Before  the  six  rose  Mr.  Murray,  seated,  began  some 
carefully  unemotional  remarks  in  farewell  to  America. 
Wonderful  America,  he  called  it,  as  full  of  merits  and 
faults,  almost,  as  his  own  Britain.  He  had  found 
many  valued  friends,  he  said,  in  his  long  stay;  but  this 
small  pick  of  them,  made  by  happy  chance  on  the  eve 
of  parting — these  few — and  two  more  in  far  Louisiana 
— had — with  variances  only  of  degree  [a  smile  to  the 
missionaries]  grown  into  his  regard  in  a  manner  quite 
peculiar. 

The  Holdens  smiled  so  bashful  a  disclaimer  that  he 
kindly  repeated,  "with  variances  only  of  degree." 

Others,  he  went  on  to  say,  stood  for  themselves  as 
themselves,  each  his  own  human  unit — which  was  good. 
So  did  these,  emphatically,  engagingly.  But  for  some 
reason  which  he  felt  no  need  to  explain  even  to  himself, 
these  stood  also,  pleasingly,  tenderly,  almost  tragically, 
for  their  city,  their  region,  their  social  cult.  "May 
hap,"  he  continued,  "one  cause  of  this  is  the  cult  itself; 
a  true  devotion,  felt  by  each  of  you  in  his  own  way,  to 
your  wee  bit  o'  the  worruld.  But  another  cause  is  the 
way  these  devotions  have  played — not  to  say  chafed — • 
on  one  another."  [A  venturesome  smile.  Faint  smiles 
in  reply,  while  Philip's  heart  and  Rosalie's  cried:  "Get 
through !  Have  done ! "] 

"The  souls,"  he  went  on,  "the  souls  one  can  most 
rewardingly  invest  his  regard  in  are  those  in  and  be- 

314 


NO  FAULT  0'  THE  SCOT 

tween  which  one  sees  more  things  occur — eh — eh — 
interiorly  than  exteriorly.  But  here  I  put  off  my  shoes 
from  off  my  feet  and  drraw  back.  If  so  much  explains 
my  fondness,  allow  it.  If  not,  forgive  it.  Henceforth, 
beyond  the  ocean,  among  peoples  forever  too  busy 
with  their  own  shoes  in  the  mud  to  give  ' Dixie'  a 
pawssing  thought,  I  shall  never  hear,  or  see  in  prrint, 
a  mention  of  any  one  of  you,  without  very  definite  and 
arrdent  good  wishes  for  you  all  and  for  y'r  city  and 
State  and  all  that  those  signify  to  you.  Ay,  the  same 
will  happen,  the  same  solicitudes  arise,  though  the 
mention  be  not  of  any  one  of  you,  but  only  of  y'r  city 
or  y'r  South." 

There  was  a  pause.  M.  Durel  began  to  respond,  but 
the  Scot  drew  breath  to  resume.  Both  apologized. 
"No,"  said  Murray,  "after  you — and  Castleton  if  the 
spirit  moves  him.  I  love  the  lawst  worrud  and  crave 
it  here." 

The  Creole  spoke  quietly,  briefly.  It  was  not  in  his 
temperament,  he  said,  to  tell  a  friend  his  virtues  to 
his  face,  nor  to  express  more  affection  in  words  than  in 
deeds.  Yet  he  must  reciprocate  all  the  sentiment  so 
kindly  offered  him — and  his — by  the  parting  voyager. 
He  wished  him  a  safe  journey,  a  delivered  country, 
health,  prosperity,  long  life,  and  a  good  memory  for 
absent  friends,  who  would  remember  him  always,  ten 
derly. 

Philip  said  he  would  be  pleased  to  offer  every  sen 
tence  of  Mr.  Durel's  as  his  own,  save  one.  He  wished 
jio  friend  would  withhold  expressions  of  affection  from 

315 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

him,  waiting  to  put  them  into  deeds.  "  I  don't  ask  for 
them  in  words;  but  between  words  and  deeds  there's  a 
wide  middle  ground,  well  known  to  every  true  heart, 
and  I'd  ask  my  friend  to  put  them  there,  where  also 
he'll  find  mine.  Just  now,  helpless  as  to  deeds,  I  say 
only,  Mr.  Murray,  that  you're  as  good  a  friend  as  any 
man  ought  to  want,  and  that  there  are  two  of  my  name 
who  prize  you  accordingly  and  wish  you,  in  all  your 
ways,  all  your  days,  God-speed." 

The  Scot  replied:  "Tis  just  between  us  four,  with 
apologies  to  these" — the  Holdens — "for  a  veiled  allu 
sion  dark  to  them.  As  we  four  may  chawnce  never 
again  to  sit  down  privately  together  I  want  to  say,  in 
most  affectionate  prrotest — ay,  with  an  aching  heart 
— that  our  one  piece  of  financial  business  stands  un 
finished — it  may  be  through  nobody's  fault,  but — cerr- 
tainly,  cerrtainly  through  no  fault  o'  mine  .  .  .  I've 
done."  He  rose. 

All  stood  up.  The  Holdens  said  good-by  first. 
Monsieur  followed.  "That's  right,  as  you  say,'*  he 
admitted,  extending  his  hand,  and  Philip,  with  a  like 
affirmation,  offered  his.  "  Finance,"  said  Rosalie,  smil 
ing  to  the  Holdens,  "we  leave  that  for  the  men !"  and 
with  a  last  gleam  of  approval  to  the  Scot  dropped  a 
parting  hand  into  his.  But  he  held  it  so  long  that  she 
spoke  again.  "And  your  steamer,  to-morrow,"  she 
asked,  "is  the ?" 

"The  Lusitania" 


316 


LI 

SOUTHWARD  ALL 

ALL  night  the  southbound  train  had  been  on  its  way. 

Now  the  mad  wheels  still  smoothly  rushed  and  sang 
underfoot,  and  the  ever-changing  spring  landscape 
swung  majestically  by  and  past  into  or  out  of  the 
memory  in  a  shimmering  mid-forenoon. 

From  a  smoking-compartment  where  for  an  hour  or 
so  he  had  been  lounging  with  M.  Durel  and  other 
passengers  Philip  came  down  the  aisle  of  the  Pullman 
to  offer  the  first  salutations  of  the  day  to  the  ladies. 
The  Holdens  were  seated  somewhat  forward  of  Rosalie, 
who  was  buried  in  a  book,  and  the  three  were  having 
the  car  quite  to  themselves.  Rosalie  was  not  in  her 
own  section.  She  had  chosen  to  sit  where  she  would 
be  the  last  one  reached  by  Philip  when  he  should  come 
visiting. 

He  paused  beside  the  college  women,  expressing 
hopes  for  their  comfort,  and  presently  the  mother, 
while  lightly  mentioning  a  bit  of  newspaper  war  com 
ment,  cleared  a  seat  for  him,  and  he  sank  to  its  arm — 
only. 

One's  eye  did  not  have  to  leave  one's  book  to  see  that 
much;  which,  after  all,  proved  nothing.  What  Rosalie 
needed  to  see,  what  her  heart  ached  to  know,  one  thing 

317 


LOVERS  OF  LOttfSIANA 

she  was  on  this  train  to  learn  if  she  could,  was  how  far 
it  might  be  yonder  girl,  yonder  strange  new-found  fac 
tor  in  her  distresses,  that  was  keeping  this  "financial 
business"  unfinished.  Should  that  fair  one  turn  out 
to  be  the  obstacle,  or  an  obstacle,  unfinished  the  busi 
ness  must  remain  forever.  Not  even  for  grand'mere's 
sake  could  it  be  otherwise. 

And  how  cruelly  plausible  it  began  to  seem,  that  this 
fair,  good  girl,  helplessly  letting  Philip  drift  into  her 
heart,  might  have  drifted  into  his  as  well.  So  often  is 
a  wounded  heart  an  open  one.  Two  souls  near  akin 
in  many  ways  and  suffering  like  isolations  for  like  be 
liefs — how  easily  may  they  be  drawn  to  each  other. 
Also,  to  such,  what  a  wide  bridge  for  the  interchange 
of  mutual  regards  may  be  any  discussion  of  even  the 
largest  public  affairs — on  their  moral  side.  Who  should 
know  that  better  than  she,  Rose  Durel — "since  a 
year?" 

With  eyes  in  the  book  she  easily  heard  told  what  the 
newspaper  had  said,  having  read  it  herself  an  hour 
earlier:  That  this  European  cataclysm  was  an  awful 
warning  against  the  risks  hidden  under  the  apparent 
harmlessness  of  all  merely  national,  imperial,  or  racial 
standards  of  greatness  or  of  a  world's  need.  As  easily 
she  heard  Philip,  trying  to  be  as  light  as  the  ladies,  say 
that  he  liked  that  new  word  just  coming  into  use, 
"supernational."  And  when  the  Holdens  begged  him 
to  impress  its  value  as  a  political  touchstone  on  his  dear 
Dixie  she  was  gratified  to  hear  him  reply  that  to  him 
Dixie's  shortcomings — though  he  believed  them  la- 

318 


SOUTHWARD  ALL 

tently  as  dangerous  as  ever — had  never  seemed  so 
small  or  pardonable  as  now  in  the  day  of  this  collision 
and  explosion  of  half  a  world's  mistakes  suddenly 
grown  colossal. 

Gratifying  it  was  also  to  see  the  two  Northerners 
take  pleasure  in  both  the  speaker  and  his  speech.  Yet 
there  was  comfort,  too,  in  hearing  them  change  the 
subject — to  books.  Had  Philip  read  Mrs.  Paleblue's 
novel,  "Brokenreed's  Blunder"?  He  had  skimmed  it, 
yes.  But,  no,  he  had  not  yet  seen  a  certain  statesman's 
truly  super-national  volume,  "The  Way  Out." 

Odd !  That  was  the  very  book  the  solitary  listener 
was  reading.  Murray  had  left  it  with  her  father,  and 
its  name  had  arrested  her  notice,  not  through  its  obvi 
ous  meaning,  a  way  to  abolish  war,  but  because,  all 
the  more  fiercely  since  the  Scot's  farewell  disclaimer, 
"a  way  out"  of  their  own  unfinished  business  was  what 
her  soul  demanded  of  Philip  Castleton. 

Now,  oddly  again,  here  came  papa  himself,  and  be 
fore  she  had  quite  realized  how  much  she  wished  it  so, 
he  had  stopped  beside  Philip  and  joined  the  talk.  Bet 
ter  yet,  when  Philip  offered  him  his  place  on  the  arm 
of  the  seat  he  accepted  it,  though  the  youth  was  left 
standing.  Ariel  still  better  again: 

"One  of  the  things  I  like  best  in  the  book  is  its 
warning  to  us,"  she  heard  Mrs.  Holden  say — Emily 
helping  her  through  the  quotation — " '  not  to  trust  too 
much  to  the  right  machinery  for  doing  things  and  not 
to  trust  too  much  to  doing  things  without  the  right 
machinery/  " 

319 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Happy  hit!  Philip  and  the  daughter  enjoyed  it 
heartily  together — overenjoyed  it,  as  it  seemed  to 
Rosalie — while  monsieur,  less  impressed,  said,  "Yes, 
pretty  good,"  and  Rosalie's  heart  wailed  again:  "Get 
through !  Have  done !" 

"Mr.  Durel,"  persisted  the  mother,  "in  my  belief 
we'll  begin  to  find  a  world's  permanent  peace  only 
when  we  begin  to  search  for  it  with  the  agony  of  a 
parent  seeking  a  lost  child.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mr. 
Castleton?" 

What  mattered  Mr.  Castleton's  thought  on  that 
point  ?  Yet  Rosalie  stopped  reading  while  he  replied : 
"Oh,  yes,  I  fancy  we've  got  to  have  both  the  agony 
and  the  machinery."  Saluting  the  group,  he  moved 
onward  to  her. 

How  swiftly  thought  can  run  when  the  heart  thinks 
and  the  heart  is  a  girl's.  "  At  last,  eh  ?  At  last ! "  said 
hers  as  he  drew  near  and  while  her  eyes  held  to  the 
page.  "And  now,  most  likely,  being  a  man  and  a 
modernist,  you  think  me  not  too  much  of  a  Creole  to 
let  you  settle — settle — an  affair  of  the  heart,  with  me, 
Rosalie  Durel,  on  a  railroad-train !  But  you  see  ? 
Look  at  that  undisturbed  papa;  he  knows  better !" 


320 


LIT 
THE  OTHER  GIRL 

" GOOD-MORNING.  May  I  sit  with  you?  Thank 
you.  What's  the  book?  Oh,  'The  Way  Out.'  We 
were  just  discussing  it." 

"Yes?  And  you  told  them  the  mistakes  of  Dixie 
are  dangerous  as  ever?  To  tell  that  to  Northerners, 
and  missionary  Northerners — I  couldn't  do  that;  I 
would  be  too  proud." 

"Mademoiselle,  isn't  that  one  of  our  worst  tempta 
tions  as  to  Dixie?  I  know  it's  mine." 

"Yours?    Ours?    What  temptation  is  that?" 

"To  make  pride  the  spring  of  our  devotion  instead 
of  love.  Pride  of  country  isn't  patriotism." 

"Yes,"  she  pensively  said,  with  her  eyes  on  the 
closed  book,  "that's  one  of  my  temptations.  That's 
our  worst  mistake  about  many  things  besides  Dixie." 

Ah,  what  did  that  mean  ?  Philip  gave  her  profile  a 
keen  glance.  "  Don't  love  and  pride,"  he  asked,  "  often 
seem  to  clash  when  really  they  don't?" 

"Ah,  I  suppose.     I  don't  like  deep  questions." 

The  train  was  stopping  at  the  edge  of  a  small  city. 
She  looked  out  into  the  station.  But  when  she  turned 
again  her  smile  was  very  sweet. 

He  touched  the  volume.  "'The  Way  Out '—how 
did  that  title  strike  you  when  you  first  saw  it?" 

321 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

She  brightened.  "You  also?  You  noticed  that  ?  I 
didn't  like  it  at  all" 

Philip  was  pleased.  "I  knew  you  wouldn't,  when  I 
saw  your  father  with  the  book." 

"I  chanced  to  be  in  your  thought  at  that  time?" 

"H'mm,  chanced!  But  why  didn't  you  like  it? 
It's  all  right  but  one  word,  isn't  it?" 

"One  word?  I  don't  know.  For  me,  yes.  And 
you?" 

They  gazed  eye  to  eye.  The  allusion  to  their  unfin 
ished  business  was  hardly  masked  at  all.  No  matter ! 
Such  interplay  of  hints  might  be  very  childish,  but  no 
matter !  The  fateful  moment  was  before  them.  The 
lover  felt  himself  treading  forbidden  ground — or  golden 
clouds,  he  scarce  knew  which. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  he  said,  "the  word  I  don't  like;  it's 
'out.'  It  sounds  like  'back  out'." 

"Then  what  would  you  make  it?" 

"I?  I'd  make  it 'The  Way  Through.'  Mademoi 
selle " 

"Well?" 

"For  me  it's  got  to  be  that." 

The  girl's  response  began  with  an  arch  smile,  though 
her  heart  was  in  her  throat,  and  interruption  was  im 
pending.  "It?  What?  What's  got  to  be  what?" 
She  spoke  hurriedly,  for  the  car's  porter  was  leading 
new  passengers  in — a  mother  of  thirty-five,  a  son  of 
fourteen  and  a  daughter  of  twelve,  all  refined  in  dress, 
handsome,  and  Creoles  at  a  glance. 

The  porter  was  sorry.  "  But  dis  section  belong' " 

322 


THE  OTHER  GIRL 

"Certainly!"  Rosalie  and  Philip  crossed  to  her 
own  seat.  There  they  remained  standing,  she  bright, 
he  dark,  with  surprise.  The  newcomers  had  stopped 
before  M.  Durel,  who,  risen,  was  hailing  the  lady  with 
a  lively  recognition  which  she  fully  reciprocated. 

Philip  burned  with  wrath.  Rosalie  explained:  "She's 
my  cousin,  of  the  Mobile  Durels.  That's  strange,  to 
be  so  soon  in  Virginia,  and  more  strange  to  be  returning 
home.  Somebody's  may  be  not  well  at  home."  She 
stepped  forward. 

Leaving  the  Holdens,  the  father  and  daughter  es 
corted  the  cousin  to  her  place  and  stood  with  her  again 
while  the  children  appropriated  the  windows,  and  the 
obliterated  Philip  sought  his  own  corner.  There,  dis 
covering  Rosalie's  book  in  his  hand,  he  in  turn  tried  to 
be  a  listening  reader.  But  the  speech  was  French  and 
rapid;  he  could  make  it  out  only  by  a  prying  attention 
and  yet  found  reading  so  difficult  that  he  closed  the 
volume.  He  would  return  to  the  Holdens  and  tell 
them  about  auntie. 

Coming  first  to  the  Creoles,  he  restored  the  book  to 
Rosalie,  hoping  to  be  detained,  introduced,  offered  a 
seat.  But  he  was  graciously  allowed  to  pass  on  and 
sit  down  with  the  Northerners.  On  mentioning  his 
aunt,  he  found  them  eager  with  an  inquiry  whose  con 
nection  with  Miss  Castleton,  in  its  domestic  bearing, 
was  obvious: 

"And  your  beautiful  home  is  for  sale?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  what  is  home  without  one's  auntie  ? " 

"And  so  it's  really  your  choice  ?    To  sell  ? " 
323 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Y* — yes.  Yes.  Yes,  it's  really  our  choice.  Had 
you  heard  to  the  contrary  ? " 

"Why,  Mr.  Castleton,  we  had.  Our  New  York 
cousin — isn't  it  odd  how  the  lightest  personal  financial 
rumor  will  reach  a  financier?" 

"Yes,  and  how  accurately  he  will  get  it.  But, 
frankly,  ladies,  whatever  truth  you've  heard  casts  not  a 
shadow  of  fault  on  auntie.  Her  Tightness  in  the  mat 
ter  is  beyond  cavil.  As  for  the  judge  and  me,  left  alone 
as  we  are,  we  don't  care  to  be  tied  up  with  a  house  to 
take  care  of.  A  hotel  will  suit  us  best." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  acquaintanceship  with  the 
college  women  he  saw  them  twinkle,  while  the  elder 
asked:  "Are  you  quite  sure  of  the  judge?" 

He  was  saved  from  replying  by  the  benevolent  voice 
of  a  waiter  who  passed  through  announcing  lunch — 
"now  ready  in  the  dining-car." 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  three  Creole  grown 
ups  had  talked  out  all  their  most  urgent  family  matters 
and  with  due  caution  had  discussed  Philip,  and  when 
the  young  Mobile  mother  had  had  a  call  from  Mrs. 
Holden  and  one  from  Philip,  and  had  enjoyed  their  sep 
arate  and  sincere  praises  of  her  children's  decorum — 
"  when  even  Creole  young  folks'  manners  have  become 
so  sadly  Americanized  " — and  the  little  girl  had  grown 
to  be  a  silent,  gazing  worshipper  of  Rosalie,  and  the 
boy  the  same  of  Philip,  the  Northern  and  the  Creole 
girl  had  an  hour  together,  with  only  the  smallest  cousin 
seated  opposite. 

"  Now  I "  thought  mademoiselle.  "  Now  we  shall  see ! " 
324 


THE  OTHER  QIRL 

Seeing  was  not  difficult.  Plainly  the  Northern  girl 
was  in  love,  pathetically  so.  She  might  hide  the  fact 
from  him,  but  that  was  all;  she  could  not  from  any  girl 
looking  for  it.  There  was  an  underglow  beneath  every 
quietest  thing  she  asked  or  said  concerning  him — a 
constant,  manifest,  unrewarded  hunger  for  some  sign 
of  favor  from  him,  that  betrayed  her  mercilessly. 

Jealousy  waned.     Most    inconveniently   the   small 
devotee  opposite,  though  all  eyes,  was  equally  all  ears. 
So  that  when  Rosalie  wished  to  offer  a  special  tender 
ness  to  the  fair  Northerner  it  had  to  be  done  entirely 
by  a  secret  hand-grasp,  in  response  to  which  the  re 
cipient,  with  a  tear  in  her  smile,  murmured : 
"You  see  right  through  me,  don't  you?" 
"Ah,  but  you  don't  need  to  mind  that." 
"I  don't  so  much,  since  it's  you.    It's  a  relief.    You 
little  know  what  a  South  Sea  island  that  college  is  to 
us.    If  you  did  you'd  see  how  you've  counted,  and  still 

count,  in  my  life,  you  and " 

"Yes?"  asked  Rosalie,  "me  and — the  aforemen 
tioned?" 

"Yes.  The — the  latter — had  best  not  be  mentioned 
again,  even  that  way,  just  now.  You  know  what  little 
pitchers  sometimes  have — and  use." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  remember  well  the  largeness  of  mine." 
"You  see,  mademoiselle,  I've  no  person,  place,  or 
thing  to  help  me  put  my  heart  out  of  my  mind.    As  the 
poet  says: 

'  I  have  forgotten  to  forget.' 

I've  lost  the  knack — or  never  had  it." 

325 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

Rosalie  was  touched  with  both  pity  and  gratitude. 
Without  palmistry  or  card-reading,  charm  or  incanta 
tion,  through  simple  nature,  nature  of  her  own  heart, 
jealousy  had  wrought  benignly,  and  the  clairvoyante's 
purpose  was  attained.  In  all  Rosalie's  own  heart's 
part  of  the  matter  Philip  was  back  again.  But,  ah,  the 
poor  girl  whose  hand  she  pressed,  who  seemed  just 
what  Philip's  aunt,  at  least,  might  have  chosen  for  him 
on  the  score  of  every  inner  and  outer  qualification! 
The  thought  brought  a  pang  of  self-effacement. 

"For  one  thing,"  Rosalie  softly  prompted,  "y°u 
can't  remember  to  forget  how  perfectly  you  suit  each 
other!" 

"Oh,  does  it  seem  that  way  to  you?" 

"Yes,  first  time  I  saw  you  I  said  that  to  grand'mere. 
You  are  of  the  same  politics,  religion " 

"Same  moral  and  social  traditions!" 

"Yes,  everything  the  same." 

"  We  rhyme ! "  whispered  Emily.  "  We  love  the  same 
poets,  musicians,  novelists,  painters,  everything!" 

"I  think  a  good  friend  might  point  him  that  out." 

"Oh,  sweet,  he  sees  it." 

"  Yet  in  vain  ?    Why  is  that  ?  " 

"For  just  the  old,  old,  old  reason." 

"In  love  to  another?" 

"Yes,  in  love  with  you." 

"M'm!    He  never  told  you  he's  renounced  me?" 

Smilingly  the  informant  shook  her  head.  "Not  he. 
Yet  I  knew.  I  got  it  from  Ovide  Landry's  wife  without 
asking,  and  I  know  how  much,  and  how  little,  renounce- 

326 


THE  OTHER  GIRL 

ment  means  to  him.  Oh,  Rosalie  Durel,  I  implore  you, 
before  you're  off  this  train,  to  make  him  renounce 
either  that  renouncement  or  else  his  love  for  you." 

"  Make  him  ?  How  can  a  girl  even  mention  a  thing 
like  that — and  on  a  train?  And  anyhow  with  still 
some  important  things  first  to  find  out  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  could — and  would.  Either  step 
would  set  me  free  as  neither  I  nor  anything  else,  with 
out  it,  can.  Now  do  you  see  why  I've  made  myself  so 
transparent?" 

"Transparent!  But  maybe  like  that  sea  around 
Bermuda,  also  deep." 

"  Deep,  oh,  no !  Only,  I  hope,  not  too  utterly  shal 
low." 

"You  are  what  I  last  week  heard  somebody  call  you; 
you  are  very  fair  and  very  good." 

"Who  said  that?    Not ?" 

"No,  a  woman.  I  am  neither  transparent  nor  either 
of  those  other  fine  things.  But  now — a  question :  This 
morning,  when  lunch  was  being  called ' 

"Yes?  You  heard  us?  About  his  aunt?  Mar 
ried?" 

"Yes,  but  he's  told  me  that  already  on  the  ship." 

"Untimely  blow  to  him." 

"  Blow  ?    You  truly  think  that  ?  " 

"Oh,  I — I  mean  on  the  business  side." 

Rosalie  started.     "Busi'— I  didn't  hear  of  that." 

"You  never  would  from  him.  We  heard  it  in  New 
York.  It  appears  that  Miss  Castleton  had  means  of 
her  own,  in  her  father's  custody,  inherited  from  her 

32V 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

mother.  They  were  to  come  into  her  own  hands  only 
in  the  event  of  her  marriage.  You  understand  about 
such  things,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  had  once  that  same  arrangement." 
"Well,  here,  all  at  once,  after  her  fathered  been  han 
dling  those  means  faultlessly  for  half  a  lifetime,  and  at 
a  moment  when  he  and  her  nephew  had  just  put  their 
own  resources  to  a  dangerous  strain  to  extricate  some 
body  from  something " 

Rosalie  put  out  a  hand.     "  Who'  ?    From  what  ?  " 
"Why,  that's  the  only  point  I'm  not  clear  on.    But 
anyhow,  their  home,  in  order  to  pay  her  in  full  and  in- 
stanter,  is  for  sale." 

Rosalie  gasped.  "Oh,  no!  Oh,  no!"  But  then 
recovering,  she  musingly  asked:  "He  thinks  that  will 
open  the  way  out,  or  through?" 

"Why,  he  makes  so  light  of  it  you  can't  tell." 

"Ah,  that  must  never  be !    He  shall  never " 

A  benign  voice  broke  in:  "Dinner  is  now  ready  in  the 
dining-car." 


328 


LHI 
TOO  LATE 

THE  journey's  second  day  drew  near  its  end.  Sun 
set  lights  and  shades  were  on  all  the  level  land.  Sunset 
colors  filled  the  sky,  bronzed  the  ruffling  waters  of  the 
Mexican  Gulf  and  its  inlets,  and  flooded  those  wide 
green  leagues  of  sea-marsh  called  the  "Grand  Plains," 
whose  crossing  takes  up  the  express-train's  last  two 
hours  of  approach  to  the  outskirts  of  New  Orleans  by 
way  of  Mobile. 

All  the  day  long  Philip,  under  a  serene  exterior,  had 
watched  and  yearned  for  a  chance  to  sit  again  at  Rosa 
lie's  side  and  take  up  their  theme  where  the  Mobile 
cousin  and  her  sweet  children,  by  this  time  at  home, 
had  so  innocently  broken  it  off.  He  had  hoped  for 
this  opportunity  the  evening  before,  when  the  small 
pair  had  been  early  tucked  into  their  berth;  but  their 
mother,  it  had  turned  out,  "adored  to  play  cards," 
and  had  with  her  all  the  equipment  for  bezique,  crib- 
bage,  euchre,  or  auction  bridge.  So  it  had  been,  "  auc 
tion"  to  a  late  hour,  with  only  the  Holdens  left  out. 
To-day  hope  had  risen  with  the  dawn,  but  so  had  the 
children;  risen  to  shadow  their  two  victims  with  an 
inexorable  adoration,  ill-timed  in  the  eyes  of  every  one 

329 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

but  their  mother,  who  could  not  imagine  them  more 
acceptably  employed. 

But  now  at  last,  with  Mobile,  Biloxi,  and  Pass 
Christian  well  behind  and  with  monsieur  explaining  to 
the  Holdens  why  Pass  Christian  is  called  Pass  Chris- 
tianne,  a  free  Philip  came  near  an  emancipated  Rosalie, 
who  laid  down  the  New  Orleans  afternoon  paper  and 
made  room  for  him. 

"But  why  looking  so  deep  in  thought?"  she  asked. 

"Thinking  of  Mr.  Murray,"  he  said,  "and  especially 
of  his  parting  words  to  us."  The  lover  was  for  resum 
ing  the  lost  topic  by  the  shortest  cut. 

Now,  though  Rosalie  could  not  approve  the  short 
cut  to  vital  topics  on  railway-trains,  she  was  eager  to 
know  that  "way  through";  had  even  been  urged  by 
her  father  to  find  it  out.  Eager  to  know  because  she 
could  allow  no  "way  through"  which  would  not  be  in 
part  her  own.  A  maiden's  proper  self-assertion  re 
quired  that,  as  also  did  her  new  knowledge  of  what 
Philip's  way  in  had  unexpectedly  cost  him.  She  had 
told  this  cost  to  her  father,  who,  like  her,  had  said, 
"My  faith,  no !  They  shall  not  do  that !" 

So  now  she  replied  to  Philip :  "  Mr.  Murray  ?  That's 
droll;  I,  too,  was  thinking  of  him.  Those  newspapers 
are  still  talking  about  those  strange  warnings  to  people 
not  to  sail  on  the  Lusitania.  What  do  you  think  about 
those  warnings?" 

"Oh,  those?  I  give  them  no  more  weight  than  I 
would  an  old  nurse's  superstitions." 

"Ah,  I  wouldn't  give  them  nearly  so  much  I" 
330 


TOO  LATE 

That  point  Philip  left  uncontested.  Picking  up  "The 
Way  Out"  he  inquired:  "What  of  this?  Have  you 
hacked  your  way  through  it?" 

"  Ah,  to  hack  through,  I  don't  believe  in  that.  Any 
how,  for  me,  that's  a  great  book.  I  believe  I  can't  ever 
again  look  at  any  part  of  the  world,  however  large,  how 
ever  small — Europe,  United  States,  Dixie,  Louisiana, 
Bermuda,  New  Orleans — the  same  way  I  used  to  look. 
And  I  think  'tis  the  same  way  with  papa,  only,  papa, 
he's,  eh,  too  like  a  man  to  say  so." 

Philip  smiled.  "Men  rarely  own  up  spiritual  debts," 
he  admitted,  and,  turning  some  leaves,  added:  "What 
golden  luck  it  is  for  one  to  light  on  the  right  book  at 
the  right  moment  in  one's  life;  not  too  soon,  not  too 
late." 

"You  think  that's  our  case  now,  papa  and  me?" 

"I  don't  know.  It's  been  mine  once  or  twice.  It 
might  be  so  again  if  I  should  read  this." 

There  Rosalie  was  amused.  "You,  no !  You  don't 
require !  But  about  this  book  and  me — and  maybe 
also  papa — you  are  right.  It  has  found  us  precisely  at 
the  right  preparedness.  I  suppose  Mr.  Murray  thought 
that  when  he  gave  it  us.  Anyhow  'tis  to  me  a  reason 
of  the  strength  of  that  book  that  'tis  presented  us  by 
him,  he  knowing  us — knowing  you — knowing  every 
thing — since  a  year.  But  also  another  reason  'tis  that 
I'm  perusing  it  coming  home  through  Dixie." 

"Then  you're  feeling  Dixie  again  as  I  feel  it !" 

"Ah,  I  know  not.  Tell  me  how  you  are  feeling 
that."  The  girl  settled  back,  designing  to  pilot  her 

331 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

companion  just  far  enough  from  "The  Way  Through" 
not  to  be  too  near  for  maiden  serenity  nor  yet  too  far 
for  definite  results. 

Said  Philip:  "Why  may  I  not  try  to  speak  for  both 
of  us  at  once  ?  "  And  when  she  archly  nodded  he  con 
tinued:  "Well,  we  realize  that  what  we've  seen  both  is 
and  is  not  the  same  old  Dixie;  same  dear  hills,  woods, 
fields,  same  human  millions  pale  and  dark " 

She  broke  in: 


'  i    ere  is  no  land  like  Dixie 
I     all  the  wide  world  over.'" 


"True,"  said  P  tip.  "For  better,  for  worse,  she's 
the  last  of  her  kin<  and  most  abidingly  herself !  But, 
speaking  of  Mr.  M  :ray " 

"I  think  every  c<    ntry  ought  to  be  herself !" 

"Well,  Dixie'll  a!  ays  be  Dixie.  We  needn't  fear- 
as  thousands  do,  yc  know — that  changes  for  the  bet 
ter  will  ever  make  ?r  less  herself  or  less  fair  or  dear. 
But,  speaking,  I  sa;  of  Mr.  Murray " 

"But  our  city;  s  ?  also  will  appear  changed  after 
those  few  weeks?" 

"Mademoiselle,  hi  s  a  week  never  counted  to  you 
for  a  year?"  A  pause.  "I  know  it  has."  Another 
pause.  "You  know  it  has  to  me." 

The  answer  was  wnry.  "Yes,  in  New  York,  for  ex 
ample,  I  had  that  e  ?rience.  Between  a  day  of  eyes 
shut  and  eyes  open  ere  can  seem  years.  And  now 
to  me  Fm  sure  our  ci  's  going  to  look  both  the  same 

332 


TOO  LATE 

and  different,  because  my  own  eyes  are  the  same  and 
not  the  same." 

"Why  not  say  our  eyes/'  ventured  Philip;  but  she 
was  suddenly  deaf. 

"You  know,"  she  resumed,  "I  think  we  shall  feel  as 
if  'tis  the  city  herself  that's  been  away 

"  And  as  if  she'd  come  back  with  a  'new  stature  and 
larger  spirit,  more  than  ever  worth  lo  *ng  and  striving 
for?" 

"Or  striving  against?"  Rosalie  ^^ed  with  an  ar 
raigning  twinkle.  uj 

"Oh,  either.    What  I  hope  we'll 7  oth  see " 

"With  our  new  sight!" 

*  11 1  j 

"  Yes,  and  more  clearly  in  the  in  f  user  life  of  the  city 
than  out  here,  though  it's  out  he  Y°° 

"  I  know  !    Say  that !    I  want ;  \  hear  that ! " 

"Why,  I  hope  we  shall  see  a  gr<  •  jing,  practical  recog 
nition,  by  our  people  as  a  people  — " 

"Creoles  and  all?" 

"Creoles  and  all — a  recognition  that,  as  with  every 
people,  some  of  our  dearest  sinj.  Parities  are  obsolete 
weapons  under  obsolete  cloaks,  g^  Dd  only  to  get  rid  of, 
and  the  sooner  the  better." 

"Sooner?    Better?    For  who'?     For  what?" 

"For  welfare;  for  honor;  the  world's  and  our  own. 
Now,  can't  we  hope  that  together,  we  two?" 

"Ah,  well — I — I  suppose  ma  ":e  so.  Together  and 
with  many  others,  even  with  TJ  ?  Sa,  since  Bermuda — 
and  that  great  war — teaching  '  so  many  things." 

"Especially  the  hidden  dan^  >  of  obsolete  weapons," 
333 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

said  Philip.     "But,  mademoiselle,  this  isn't  what  I 
came  to  talk  to  you  about." 

"Only  'tis  so  much  the  most  on  your  heart,  eh?" 

"No,  only  that  it's  forever  in  my  way." 

"Your  way  through,  perchance?" 

Philip  eagerly  repeated  the  phrase. 

"But,  Mr.  Castleton." 

"Mademoiselle." 

"We  are  already  past  Lake  Catherine;  I  think  there 
is  now  no  time.  You  ought  to  have  commenced  about 
that  before." 

"I  can  be  as  brief  as  a  telegram  and  as  guarded." 

"Ah,  guarded?  I  cannot  suppose  there  is  need  to 
be  guarded.  That's  a  financial  question;  I  am  sure 
you  will  express  that  financially." 

"Fitly,  I  hope.  You  speak  of  new  sight.  Of  late, 
while  left  so  entirely  alone  with  the  judge,  I've  had 
new  sight  for  a  thing,  a  most  beautiful  and  sacred 
thing,  which  I  might  have  seen  months  earlier  had  not 
my  own  passion  so  blinded  me  in  all  directions  but 
one."  The  hurried  words  stopped.  Rosalie's  hands 
had  visibly  tightened  on  her  book. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  Her  averted  eyes  narrowed,  her 
subdued  voice  slightly  hardened.  "Yes,  I  think  so. 
And  this  time  I  think  I'm  guessing  more  correctly  what 
that  is  and  who'  'tis  about." 

"You  must  be.    You  can't  miss  it  this  time." 

"No,  I've  seen  that  same  thing.  Also  I  see  that's 
for  you  especially  a  most  excellent  way  out." 

"Not  out,  mademoiselle;  you  mean  through." 
334 


TOO  LATE 

She  shook  her  head.  The  narrowed  eyes  still  looked 
away  and  the  low  voice  remained  a  trifle  hard.  "No. 
Out,  after  all,  is  the  best  way  and  I  beg  you  to  take  it. 
I  saw  how  good  that  is  just  those  last  two  days  whilst 
you  were  sitting  there  with  her." 

"With — oh,  mademoiselle ' 

"Wait,  let  me  tell  you.  That's  because  I  perceive 
how  beautifully,  perfectly,  you  and  she,  as  they  say, 
rhyme !  Same  politics,  religion,  philosophy,  loving  the 
same  poets,  painters,  musicians,  everything " 

"Ah,  how  can  you?  How  can  you  make  that  mis 
take?" 

The  averted  eyes  came  back.  "That's  a  mistake? 
I  have  guessed  wrong  again?" 

"On  ship  or  land,  never  so  wrong  before." 

"That's  absolute?    You  assure  me  that?" 

"Absolutely.  No  such  thing  ever  entered  my  mind. 
For  me  there's  never  been,  there  never  can  be,  but  one 
of  your  kind.  Don't  you  know  that?  You  do.  You 
do." 

"Then  what"— a  catch  of  agitation  broke  the  ques 
tion  in  two — "what  do  you  see  with  that  new  sight?" 

"A  mind,  a  heart,  which  you  also  must  have  seen. 
The  lifetime  patient  mind,  the  lifetime  loyal  heart,  of 
my  dear  young-old  judge  !  Of  him  and— 

The  inquirer's  hand  lifted .  "  If  you  please,  no !  The 
judge  alone  you  can  say,  if  you  want;  but  the  judge 
and — no !  And  is  not  possible  to  suppose.  But  any 
how,  in  that  mind  of  the  judge  what  did  you  see  ?" 

"Something  very  much  like  my  way  through.     I 
335 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

saw  that  years  are  not  the  true  measure  of  youth.  I 
saw  that  under  the  surface  of  life  a  buried  love  can  lie 
years  in  trance,  with  that  life  aspiring,  blooming,  and 
fruiting  in  all  its  duties  round  and  round  the  circle  of 
the  seasons  and  at  last,  sooner  or  later,  come  to  its 
own,  its  resurrection  and  reward." 

"But,  Mr.  Castleton— like  papa " 

"Yes,  true,  like  your  father,  the  judge  married." 

"Well,  you,  you  can't  regret  that." 

"No.  And  yet,  mademoiselle,  had  he  not  married, 
this  might  have  come  to  him  far  earlier." 

"What  is  this?"  There  was  challenge  in  the 
query. 

"His  chance.  I  call  it  nothing  more.  His  whole 
heart's  chance,  now  his  last  chance.  It  might  have 
come  in  ten  years  or  less.  Mine  may  come  in  five." 

"I— I  don't— I  don't  understand." 

"I'll  explain.  As  I  see  myself,  I  lie  supine  in  the 
bondage  of  a  single  silken  thread;  a  thread  of  absurd 
punctilio,  too  fine-spun  for  ordinary  sight.  That's 
plain  so  far,  is  it  not  ? " 

"Yes,  but — not  so  brief  as  a  telegram." 

"Well,  so  lying,  and  asking  no  conditional  pledge  of 
anybody,  I  claim  for  myself  one  right,  the  right  to 
wait;  and  for  the  judge  one,  the  right  to  be  paid  at  last 
for  all  his  waiting." 

"I  think  you  are  not  speaking  very  financially." 

"I  will.  Your  father's  obligation  to  the  judge  and 
me  will  some  day  be  extinguished;  not  by  Mr.  Murray; 
on  that  subject  I  fancy  we  have  his  last  word;  but  by 

336 


TOO  LATE 

your  father  himself.  Till  then  I  want  you  to  let  me 
wait — as  the  judge  has  waited." 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "My  papa  tells  me  that 
may  take  ten,  fifteen,  twenty  years.  And  that's  a 
bondage  not  of  a  silken  thread." 

"No,  nor  of  so  much  as  a  cobweb,  save  by  your  own 
choice.  But  whatever  it  is,  or  the  length  of  time  may 
be,  or  you  may  do  meantime,  I'll  wait.  Who  can  tell  ? 
Fortune,  smiling  on  so  many  in  these  days  of  fabulous 
gains  and  losses,  may  smile  on  your  father,  and  my 
time  turn  out  joyfully  short.  But,  short  or  long,  I'll 
wait.  And  that,  mademoiselle,  tame  as  it  looks,  tame 
enough  for  the  tamest  mind,  is  my  way  through." 

The  listener  sighed.  "Seems  to  me  that's  pretty 
wild.  Mr.  Castleton,  your  home,  'tis  for  sale?" 

The  two  sat  eye  to  eye  while  Philip  asked:  "Does 
that  count  against  me? — with  you?" 

"No,"  she  replied,  rising  as  the  porter  came  with  his 
brushes,  "on  the  contrary.  And  neither  with  papa. 
Go  there  now  and  ask  him;  he'll  tell  you  that."  Her 
dismissing  smile  was  as  sweet  as  a  rose. 

"But— oh!— but " 

"Yes,  I  know.  And  I'm  sorry.  But  if  you  couldn't 
be  brief  as  a  telegram  you  ought  to  have  commenced 
about  that  before." 


337 


LIV 

THE  LUSITANIA!    THE  LUSITANIA! 

WELL  lost  to  the  careless  eye  in  that  wide  piece  of 
up-town  New  Orleans  once  called  Jefferson  City  stands 
an  old  Creole  home  which  even  at  this  last  moment 
claims  first  place  in  our  attention. 

On  which  side  of  St.  Charles  or  Peters  Avenue  it  may 
be  found,  or  how  many  squares  from  either,  matters 
not.  It  stands,  or  sits — nests  on  the  ground  in  the 
cool  of  its  blossoming  evergreens — at  the  far  end  of  a 
well-shaded  old  flower-garden. 

This  garden  was  once  of  much  extent,  but  some 
shortage  of  worldly  wisdom  compelled  its  heirs  to  part 
with  four-fifths  of  it  to  a  buyer  who,  while  planning  to 
build  on  it,  developed  an  incurable  ailment,  changed 
his  whim,  and  gave — left — the  ground  to  the  city  for 
a  bit  of  park. 

As  such,  owing  to  the  city's  lack  of  interest  in  it,  it 
remained  beautiful;  but,  possibly  for  that  reason,  had 
never  become  very  public.  A  few  nurses  and  children 
found  pleasure  in  it  by  day,  but  after  every  clear  sunset 
it  once  more  belonged  to  the  moon  and  stars,  the  mock 
ing-bird  and  the  up-town  Ducatels.  For  Ducatels  they 
were — a  father,  mother,  son,  and  son's  wife  and  chil 
dren,  who  dwelt  there,  in  the  reserved  remnant  behind. 

338 


THE  LUSITANIA!  THE  LUSITANIA! 

Such  were  the  facts  in  May,  1915,  when  their  beau- 
iful  and  beloved  cousin,  Madame  Durel,  was  their 
uest — and  the  garden's  and  park's  guest — while  Ro- 
alie  and  her  father  were  in  New  York  and  Bermuda, 
nd  while  the  son,  the  ex-bank-teller,  was  beginning 
ife  a  second  time  in  the  new  antique  shop  in  Royal 
>treet.  But  now  monsieur  and  Rosalie  were  back, 
nd  with  'mere  and  the  four  cousins  had  set  up  a 
)urel-Ducatel  household. 

"Permanent?"  their  Creole  intimates  inquired. 

"  Ah,  that  depended !  Anyhow,  permanent  for  the 
ime  being;  until  they  could  find  something  much  more 
oomy,  elegant,  modern,  central,  and  inexpensive. 

So  said  madame  gravely,  Rosalie  gayly,  in  the  house 
:self — or  garden — at  an  afternoon  reception  proposed 
or  them  by  certain  kindred  in  advance  of  their  arrival 
nd  given  to  and  by  them  on  the  second  day  after  it. 
!*he  Castletons,  of  course,  attended,  to  whom  "Al- 
honse"  was  so  cordial  that  some  of  those  kindred 
runted,  some  sniffed.  A  mere  outdoor  tea  the  affair 
pas,  but  cottage  and  garden  were  alike  so  thronged  that 
be  judge  and  Philip,  especially  Philip,  could  be  courte- 
usly  slighted  without  any  of  the  household  (save  Ro- 
alie)  being  aware.  Two  or  three  tried  the  amusing 
eat. 

"And  now  their  house  is  for  sale,"  gossiped  certain 
nes  bound  homeward.  "Why  is  that?  Cotton?" 

A  shrug.     "No,  indorsing." 

"  Who'  for  ?    That  Scotchman,  may  we  hope  ?  " 

"No  one  knows.     Some  say  Ovide  Landry." 
339 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Oh,  impossible!    And  Rosalie,  finds  no — choir?" 

"No  need !    Bank's  doing  so  well !" 

"Aha,  Jean,  there  is  magic  in  the  Durel  name  yet !" 

"Yes,  the  best  kind,  Marie;  money  magic." 

"Ah,  sordid!  Well,  here's  my  car-line.  Good-by. 
Oh,  are  you  going  at  Tulane  Friday  afternoon  to  hear 
that  Belgian  professor  tell  about  the  war  ?  Rosalie  and 
'mere  are  going.  They  are  of  the  Era  Club  now,  you 
know.  You'll  be  there,  tired  business  man?" 

"No,  I  don't  digest  lectures.  For  me  the  best  diet, 
that's  the  movies.  And  besides,  Friday?" 

"So  says  Professor  Castleton,  who  will  introduce 
him." 

"And  yet  you  are  going !  " 

"Yes,  I'm  not  hideboun',  like  you — ha-ha!" 

The  low-roofed  cottage  behind  the  bit  of  park  con 
tributed  to  the  lecturer's  audience  not  only  grand'mere 
and  Rosalie,  but  the  elder  pair  of  Ducatels.  At  the 
hour's  close  these  four,  leaving  the  hall,  were  overtaken 
by  Philip.  "Are  you  walking  home?"  he  asked  them, 
and  to  Rosalie  added:  "I'd  like  to  walk  with  you." 

Following  madame  and  the  Ducatels  the  two  were 
led  into  a  series  of  umbrageous  streets  between  resi 
dential  gardens.  "This,"  Philip  said,  with  a  motive, 
"is  almost  as  private  as  your  little  park  or  your  own 
cottage." 

"Ah,  not  at  all.     Are  you  looking  for  somebody?" 

He  glanced  three  ways.  "I'm  looking  for  a  news- 
boy." 

340 


THE  LUSITANIA!  THE  LU SIT  AN  I  A! 

"In  St.  Charles  Avenue  I  saw  two  or  three." 

"Yes,  at  a  distance,  and  our  audience  buying  their 
papers  excitedly.  Do  you  know?  The  more  the  pa 
pers  print,  the  more  I'm  bothered  about  Mr.  Murray 
and  his  ship.  I'm  selfishly  bothered.  I  want  your 
seal  on  my  "way  through"  while  it's  costing  me  all  it 
can.  I  want  it  before  it  can  in  any  sort  be  cheapened 
by  any  news  of  his  safe  arrival." 

The  response  came  tardily.     "Mr.  Castleton?" 

"Well?" 

"One  thing  I  never  saw  in  my  life.  Did  you  ever 
see  that  ? "  The  inquirer's  smile  was  so  sweet,  so  nearly 
fond,  that  the  lover's  heart  thrilled. 

"Ever  see  what?" 

"  Did  you  ever  see,  however  quiet  the  place,  the  seal 
— put  on  anything — in  the  street?" 

"Oh !    I'll  say  no  more  till  we  get  to  your  house." 

"And  till  'mere  has  asked  you  to  come  in?" 

"Yes,  and  to  sit  down,"  he  jested.  "  But,"  he  added, 
sobering,  "I've  something  else,  which  I  must  say  before 
we  hear  any  bad  news  of  our  friend." 

"  Something  else  you  must  say  ?    About — what  ?  " 

"Zephire  Durel.  He  and  his  fellow  traveller  are  on 
that  steamer.  I  got  them  on  it.  I  thought  their  haste 
to  be  gone  was  wise  and  also  that  in  any  strait  Mr. 
Murray  might  be  some  help  to  them." 

"Ah,  yes!  You  were  good  to  do  that.  Oh,  that 
news  you  are  fearing — I  think  that's  impossible  !  But 
next  corner  is  Peters  Avenue  and  maybe  the  newsboy." 

Indeed,  as  they  reached  that  point,  and  their  seniors 
341 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

paused  for  them  on  the  corner  over  the  way,  a  car 
passed  and  a  newsboy  stepped  from  it,  crying  the  awful 
tidings  of  the  Lwitania.  Philip  bought  a  paper. 

"More  than  a  thousand  lost !"  he  sighed.  His  gaze 
swept  down  the  page  and  suddenly,  mutely,  he  passed 
the  sheet  to  Rosalie,  and  in  a  roll  of  the  lost  she  read 
the  name  of  their  friend.  With  flooded  eyes  bent  on 
it,  she  turned  away.  Madame  and  the  Ducatels  re 
joined  her.  Tearfully  smiling,  she  looked  again  to 
Philip. 

"Good  evening,"  she  said.     "Come  see  us- — later." 

"To-day  ?    To-morrow  ?  " 

"No.    I— Til  write  you  that.    Good-by." 


342 


LV 
LISTEN! 

TO-MORROW,  not  a  line  from  her.  To-morrow  again, 
never  a  word.  Again  to-morrow,  nothing !  So  to  the 
lover  ticked  eternity's  clock. 

But  he  masqueraded  well.  Day  brought  the  day's 
work,  night  the  library-lamp  and  newspaper  recitals  of 
the  ocean  massacre;  tales  of  horror,  tales  of  glorious 
self-sacrifice;  amended  lists  of  the  rescued  and  of  the 
lost.  Zephire  and  Philomele  were  gone.  He  had  sunk 
after  saving  her  and  she  had  died  in  one  of  the  lifeboats. 
The  second  morning  had  brought  a  rumor  that  the 
banker,  Murray,  after  all,  was  not  lost.  In  the  after 
noon 

"Rose,"  said  grand'mere,  "telephone." 

Rosalie  accepted  the  receiver,  but  held  madame  cap 
tive.  "Yes,  this  is —  Ah,  good  evening.  News? 
No,  what  is  it?  We  were  just  going  out  in  hopes  to 
buy  a  paper." 

"That  rumor,"  said  the  instrument,  "is  confirmed, 
absolutely  verified.  Mr.  Murray  is  saved." 

"Ah,  heaven  be  thanked!  What  else?  Is  there 
more?" 

"  Very  little.  Trying  to  save  your  cousin,  he  did  sink. 
But  he  rose  and  was  saved.  That's  all  we  know  so  far." 

"  But  that's  glorious !    And  what  other  news  ?  " 
343 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 
"None.    Have  you  written  that,  eh 


"Ah,  that's  too  soon  yet.  I  must  get  some  other 
news  before  that.  .  .  .  Yes,  pretty  soon.  .  .  .  Good- 
by."  The  receiver  clicked  on  the  hook,  and  the  girl 
turned  as  madame  asked,  in  French 

"Other  news?    What  other  news  must  you  get?" 

Rosalie  dropped  her  hands  on  madame's  shoulders. 
"News  from  you !  Right  now  I" 

In  madame's  room  they  sat  down,  four  hands  joined, 
but  at  Rosalie's  first  utterance  she  was  stopped.  "Oh, 
my  child,  my  poor  child  I  Impossible !  How  could  you 
suppose  it  ?  .  .  .  No,  under  no  possible  circumstance. 
.  .  .  No,  not  even  to  make  you  happy.  It  could 
never  make  you  happy  to  see  me  so  pathetically  ridicu 
lous.  Enough !  Enough !  As  you  love  me,  do  not 
mention  that  ever,  ever,  ever  again.  Ah,  spare  your 
tears;  your  day  of  joy  may  yet  come." 

"Beloved,  the  tears  are  for  you  and  you  alone  I" 

On  the  tenth  day  afterward  there  was  yet  no  line, 
never  a  word,  nothing.  But  on  the  eleventh  afternoon 
there  came  into  Prytania  Street  by  the  hand  of  a  small 
Ducatel  a  note  inviting  both  Castletons  to  call  that 
evening,  yet  preparing  them  for  one  disappointment; 
in  the  first  half  of  the  evening  M.  Durel  would  not  be 
at  home  but  down  in  the  Vieux  Carre  on  business. 

When  they  reached  the  cottage  garden  they  were  con 
fronted  by  that  always  charming  sight,  a  Creole  family 
emerging  from  their  front  door.  Besides  the  two  Durel 
ladies  were  the  senior  Ducatel,  his  wife,  their  son's 
wife,  and  that  pretty  cousin  whom  the  Castletons  had 

344 


LISTEN! 

first  met  at  the  opera-house  concert.  She  was  just  re 
turning  to  her  own  home,  a  few  squares  off,  and  Rosalie 
and  the  elderly  Ducatel  were  about  to  conduct  her. 
But  now  he  yielded  his  place  to  Philip  and  with  his  wife 
and  daughter-in-law  passed  into  the  cottage  while  the 
judge  and  grand'mere  joined  the  other  three. 

The  garden,  the  sequestered  little  park  beyond  it, 
the  summer  air,  the  fragrance,  the  shade  of  the  streets' 
camphor-trees,  the  palms  against  the  moonlight,  made 
an  enchanting  hour  and  scene.  But  the  home-bound 
cousin  was  feeling  derelict.  A  babe  was  awaiting  her, 
and  her  step,  frankly  encouraged  by  Rosalie  and  Philip, 
grew  eager.  On  the  other  hand,  grand'mere,  if  only  in 
deference  to  the  judge  and  the  temperature,  preferred 
a  more  dignified  progress  and  warned  the  three  juniors 
that  if  he  and  she  were  to  be  thus  dropped  they  would 
mercilessly  turn  back.  And  soon  they  mercilessly  did  so. 

"I  wouldn'  have  object'  to  go  faster  if  they  had 
request'  us/'  she  said  as,  once  more  nearing  the  park, 
they  went  yet  slower. 

But  equally  slow  in  their  returning  step  were  the 
other  pair,  and  as  soft  in  their  speech,  mainly  Rosalie's. 
Almost  in  their  first  moment  alone  she  had  asked 
Philip  if,  still  with  no  pledge  from  her,  he  held  im 
movably  to  his  proposal  to  wait  and  wait  through  the 
years.  And  when  he  said,  "Immovably!"  he  felt  her 
tremble  as  she  let  herself  be  old-fashioned  enough  to 
take  his  arm. 

"Surely,"  he  added,  "you've  not  sent  for  me  to  tell 
me  you  forbid  ? " 

345 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

She  replied  that  she  was  still  in  doubt  if  it  was  not 
purely  selfish  and  cruel  for  her  to  allow  it. 

"  But  you  do  allow  it  ?    Tell  me  you  do ! " 

"Mr.  Castleton,  if  everything  was  the  same  this 
evening  as  when  we  walked  last  together  I  wouldn't,  I 
couldn't  permit." 

"  But  everything  is  not  the  same  ?  What's  come  to 
pass?" 

"  I  must  tell  you.  This  morning  all  at  once  has  come 
to  pass  something  to  make  it  possible,  even  probable, 
that  such  a  waiting  as  you  propose,  though  it  might  be 
for  years,  might  be  for  just  only  a  few."  There  the 
girl  felt  the  lover  tremble,  and  hurriedly  spoke  on: 
"But  this  doesn't  mean  that  even  at  the  last  I  can 
say  what  you'll  be  waiting  for.  Only  if  that  fact  is 
recognized " 

"I  fully  recognize  it." 

"Only  if  that  is  recognized  can  I  tell  you  what  a 
strange  letter  I  got  this  morning." 

"From  Murray?" 

"Yes." 

"About  our ?" 

"No,  only  about  Zephire.  Zephire,  since  beginning 
the  Lusitania  voyage,  was  all  the  time  trying  to  be 
with  Mr.  Murray,  and  because,  you  know,  he  was  born 
to  talk  about  himself,  he  told  many  things.  And 
among  the  rest  he  told  how,  whilst  that  short  time  in 
Mexico,  he  and  Philomele  had  kept,  with  a  splendid 
success,  a  gambling-house.  Well!  On  the  third  day 
of  the  steamer  he  astonished  Mr.  Murray  when  he 

346 


LISTEN ! 

showed  him  a  bill  of  exchange  for  thousands  of  pounds 
sterling,  and  begged  Mr.  Murray  to  let  him  endorse 
that  to  him  and  leave  it  in  his  hand/' 

Philip  made  a  fist:  "I  know  why!  I  suspected  it 
on  the  Bermuda  steamer.  He  thought  one  of  those 
refugees  was  following  him  with  deadly  intent." 

It  was  so.  This  man,  Rosalie  resumed,  had  lost  a 
fortune  at  Zephire's  tables,  and  on  ship  after  ship  was 
still-hunting  him  and  that  bill  of  exchange.  Now  the 
banker  was  besought  to  hold  it  subject  to  the  ex- 
cashier's  call.  In  the  event  of  Zephire's  death  with 
the  deposit  unclaimed,  or  in  any  strong  presumption  of 
his  death,  it  was  to  be  paid  unconditionally  to  Rosalie. 

"  And  papa  has  it  now  in  the  bank.  He  will  pay  you 
that  whole  amount  to-morrow." 

"What!.  Me?  No!  Never!  A  thousand  times, 
no !  Your  poor  cousin  never  meant  that.  If  your  re 
lease  from  debt  ever  crossed  his  mind  he  thought  only 
— for  he  knew  only — of  Ovide." 

"  No,  I  think  he  knew  better.  He  was  too  smart  for 
that — Zephire  Durel.  Anyhow  you'll  make  me  very 
unhappy  if  you  refuse  that  from  papa  to-morrow." 

So  for  a  time  they  contended,  but  in  the  end  Philip 
drew  the  girl's  hand  to  his  lips,  murmuring:  "Mademoi 
selle,  we  are  out !  No,  not  out;  we  are  through  !" 

"Ah-h!    When  just  now  you  fully  recognized — 

"I  did.  I  do.  But  the  wait,  Rosalie,  the  long,  long 
wait,  is  cancelled." 

She  was  inexorable.  "Not  by  that.  That  can 
maybe  make  it  more  short,  but  how  much  you  don't 

347 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

know.  Because,  you  see?  To  release  not  me  alone 
but  also  'mere  and  papa,  we  have  there  not  enough, 
neither  half  enough;  and  for  me  is  no  release  possible 
except  it  be  also  of  'mere  and  papa.  But,  Mr.  Castle- 
ton,  there  is  besides  another  trouble/' 

"Oh,  not — oh,  surely  not  another?" 

"Yes.  That's  not  financial,  yet  still  at  the  same 
time  'tis  the  worst  of  all." 

"Ah,  me!    Tell  it.    Tell  it!" 

"I  don't  know  if  you  can  believe  that's  the  worst, 
and  same  time  it  is!  You  remember" — the  words 
caught  in  her  throat,  stopped  by  a  loser's  desperation 
playing  a  poor  hand's  poorest  card — "you  remember, 
last  week  I  telephoned  you  I  must  first  get  some  other 
news?  Well,  that  same  day  I  got  it.  'Twas  from 
grand'mere.  I  thought  it  is  going  to  be  good,  but  it 
turned  out  very,  very,  very  bad.  And  so  long  as  'tis 
that  way  I  can't  ever  give  that  answer  you  want. 
And  that's  notwithstanding  you  are,  to  me,  of  very, 
very  few  faults." 

Chagrin  drove  the  lover  to  irony.  "Except  in  my 
politics,"  he  suggested. 

Ah,  your  politics,  I  have  learned  to  stand  them. 
Because,  Mr.  Castleton,  I  see  that  in  all  your  politics, 
right  or  wrong,  you  are  a — a  lover — of  truth — of  jus 
tice — and  of  Louisiana,  and  for  me  that's  enough." 

"Then  what  is  this  last,  worst  trouble  of  all?  Your 
praises  only  make  me  desperate  if  you  can't  tell  me 
that." 

"  Ah,  that's  impossible !  All  I  can  say  is,  just,  yes, 
348 


LISTEN ! 

you  can  wait.     I  can't  prevent  you  from  waiting,  can 
I?" 

"No,  you  can't  prevent  me." 

"And  you  shall  wait ?    Spite  of  all ?    Even  of  me ? " 
"I  shall  wait  in  spite  of  all,  even  of  you." 
He  felt  her  tremble  again.     "Mr.  Castleton,"  she 
asked,  "I  didn't  tell  you  papa  also  he's  got  one?" 
"What!    A  letter?    And  from  the  same  source?" 
"He'll  inform  you.     He'll  presently  be  back." 
"Mademoiselle,  has  he  gone  to  see  Ovide?" 
"I'll— I'll  tell  you.     But"— they  were  re-entering 
the  park,  and  her  tone  dropped  to  a  murmur — "there 
is  here,  these  nights,  a  mocking-bird — of  course  there 
are,  all  the  time,  everywhere,  thousands  of  mocking 
birds,  but — I  never  heard  one  so  astonishing.     Maybe 
if  we  are  quiet  he'll  commence  to  sing." 

The  moon  was  high.  The  tall  shrubberies  and  their 
shadows  on  the  paths  were  velvet-black.  A  certain 
bench  beside  a  mass  of  roses,  close  by,  though  not  yet 
in  view,  drew  their  steps.  Motioning  Philip  back,  Ro 
salie  stole  forward  to  overpeer  this  growth  and  that, 
till  presently  the  seat  came  into  her  view — pre-empted. 
Beside  it  stood  madame  and  the  judge.  What  startling 
significance  was  in  their  attitude  need  not  be  detailed. 
Rosalie  saw  it  with  all  the  rapture  that  had  ever  over 
flowed  the  spot  in  the  bird's  song.  She  stole  back  to 
Philip  showing  such  emotion  that  he  met  her  anxiously. 
Tears  shone  in  her  eyes,  yet  she  spoke  first.  "  Papa  is 
not  come?" 

"No,  what's  happened?    What  have  you  seen?" 
349 


LOVERS  OF  LOUISIANA 

"Something/'  she  smilingly  replied,  "that  ought  to 
have  been  seen  forty  years  ago."  She  plucked  his 
sleeve  and  they  moved  on,  taking  pains  to  be  heard, 
and  the  next  word  was  from  madame  to  Rosalie. 

"Ah !  And  now,  on  the  contrary,  you  have  compel' 
us  to  wait !  .  .  .  Ah,  yes !  But  would  you  have  like* 
for  us  to  go  into  the  house  without  you?  Oh-h, 
no!" 

"Listen!"  said  Rosalie.     "Papa  is  coming." 

Monsieur  appeared.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "not  to 
be  sooner  at  home.  I  was  oblige'  to  go  down- town." 

"To  see  Ovide,"  boldly  prompted  Rosalie. 

"Ah,  you've  tol'  on  me !  Well,  then,  gentlemen,  I'll 
ask  you  a  favor." 

Both  Castletons  granted  it  first  and  heard  it  after 
ward. 

"'Tis  this,"  said  monsieur.  "When  you  arr-ive 
home  to-night  will  you  please  to  juz',  eh,  take  that 
uzeless  sign  off  yo'  house?" 

"Mr.  Durel,"  asked  Philip,  "did  Mr.  Murray  im 
pose — conditions  ?  " 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  the  smiling  Creole,  "let  me  tell 
you;  tha'z  a  thing  deztined  to  remain  egsclusively  be 
tween  him  and  me."  He  addressed  the  judge.  "  Well, 
shall  we  all  pazz  inside?" 

They  and  madame  began  to  go  and  the  juniors  fol 
lowed.  But  at  a  slight  angle  in  the  shrubbery  Rosalie 
felt  a  detaining  touch  and  she  and  Philip  stood  still, 
alone. 

"Are  we  not  to  hear  the  bird?"  he  murmured. 
350 


LISTEN ! 

"Ah!  Can  I  cause  a  bird  to  sing  by  just  telling 
him?" 

"Yes.  You  can.  Yes.  Rosalie,  the  first  time  we 
ever  met,  in  that  far  Northern  city,  when  everything 
that  had  power  to  sunder  us  began  to  rise  into  sight, 
I  too  heard  a  bird  sing  amazingly.  Say  one  word  and 
he  will  sing  again." 

Despite  a  certain  bewitching  resistance  he  had  begun 
to  draw  her  to  himself,  but  "Nn-o,"  she  said,  "I  don't 
think  that's  possible.  Ah,  that  would  be  a  sin !  That 
would  be  magic!" 

"Magic  or  not,  Rosalie,  it's  happening  now.  Listen  ! 
Don't  you  hear  it?" 

She  looked  up  into  his  eyes.  She  had  never  been  so 
near  them.  And  she  listened.  "Nn-o,  I — I  don't 
hear  it." 

A  hand  on  her  head  pressed  it  to  his  heart.  "Do 
you  hear  it  now  ? "  he  asked.  "  Do  you  hear  it — now  ?  " 
And  she  whispered: 

"Yes." 

THE  END 


351 


14  DAf 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 


Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

iifcrtr 

^r*^,^   f  ^ 

MAV  1  ^  106-5 

IYJAT  1  <o  19n? 

AUG16B87 

AUG131987 

LD  21A-50m-3,'62 
(C7097slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  73(83 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


BDOBDlflbbE 


